


the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s Relationships, Dominance & Submission, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Obedience Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Rimming, Sensation Play, Voice Kink, breath play, collaring, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mr. Reese, it may be difficult for you to believe given the nature of our relationship, but I’m not a sadist. I don’t enjoy causing people pain, humiliation or discomfort, I much prefer it if the partners I play with are equally satisfied by the experience.”</p><p>John is pretty sure that this wasn’t covered by Leon’s <i>Intro To What Doms Typically Expect From You.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this story was honestly an adventure, and I couldn't have done it without the support of these amazing people:
> 
>  **Nightwolfslair** , who discussed this story with me when it was just an idea in my head & an incoherent draft on my harddrive, and helped create this universe. 
> 
> **Dana** , who has not only inspired a complete rewrite, but has also been incredibly supportive and awesome through the whole writing process <3 This story is so, so much better for her involvement in it, and I can't thank her enough for her brilliance and imagination and enthusiasm and creativity. 
> 
> **Sky** , who has read and edited this story multiple times in all its different drafts, and is basically the best beta I could wish for. Not only did she finish her work at the speed of light, she also pointed out that some crucial character moments needed more work, kept track of when Harold Finch took his darn jacket off and caught the infamous Tablecloth Incident. 
> 
> Thank you for being involved in this project, it was a wild ride and lots of fun <3  
> I hope you all enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Title from “Do I Wanna Know” by The Arctic Monkeys.

JOHN

_**_**US Military Base in Afghanistan, Classified Location, eight years ago.** _ ** _

**__** _John carefully moves the barbed wire out of the way. His hand is wet and warm, the sand clings to it like powder. The sun is hot above him, the air flickering with heat. Something catches on his shoulder, then the small metal teeth of the spikes bite into the delicate skin of his wrist. John can hear voices shouting in the distance, but he drowns them out and crawls further on all fours._

“ _ _Hey, you. Looks like you hurt yourself there,“ John says. The dog he's crawling towards has soft brown fur. Its whole body is shaking violently. His right paw is caught in the barbed wire fence, red slick blood staining its fur. It looks at John with huge, scared eyes.__

__"It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you,“ John says. The dog strains toward him, pulling the wire with him as far as it will go. When John reaches out, the dog licks his fingers._ _

–

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a busy reception area. There are people carrying sleek leather briefcases, tense-looking manager types talking on the phone or balancing stacks of files while trying not to spill their coffee. John has the sudden impulse to ride all the way down again and walk straight out of the building: the __Kingfisher Enterprises__ main building and its buzzing pulse feels like a rocket launch site after the time John has spent in the vastness of the desert.

He approaches the secretary behind the reception desk. He thinks of a good way to introduce himself: __Hello, I am here to apply for the job as a hired submissive__? __I have an appointment.__ Seems hilariously inappropriate.

He shouldn't have worried: the woman holds up her hand the second John opens his mouth, pointing to the headset in her right ear. “Certainly, I’ll arrange it,” she says, typing something into the computer with dizzying speed. The shiny silver name tag on her blouse reads __Samantha Groves__. She ends the call and makes a point out of meticulously finishing up her notes before looking up at him.

“Hello, my name is --“

“I know who you are,” Samantha Groves says instantly. She gives him a deliberate once-over, raising an eyebrow.

John feels extremely self-aware all of a sudden. There is something decidedly unfriendly in her gaze, as if he already failed some kind of very important test. He wonders who else at the office knows what kind of contract he is planning to sign with Mr. Finch. Finch is, as John's internet research has informed him, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and one of the most influential businessmen in NYC. Apparently he is also in need of a sub for rent: a paid submissive who charges for being tied up, gagged and bossed around, among other things. John won't pretend to be an expert, it's his first day on the job, after all.

Samantha Groves hands him a stack of papers. “Standard nondisclosure-agreement,” she says, folding over a handful of pages. “And this would be your specific contract.”

John feels himself blush. The first words he reads are “limits” and “sexual gratification.”

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask me,” she says sweetly, but John is pretty sure that her eyes spell murder. He's wondering if maybe she has a thing for her rich boss when the door opens.

Despite his best attempts, John has only found snapshots of Mr. Finch: a blurred face in a crowd, a little blue square where an official photograph should have been. Finch's face should be all over the tabloids and blogs with the kind of money he's making, but he seems to value his privacy above anything else.

The man who walks out of the office is dressed in a perfectly tailored suit in a dark shade of blue. There are crisp white shirt cuffs covering his wrists, closed with gleaming silver cuff links on both sides. He is shorter than John, with a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and intelligent eyes that assess John critically. John instinctively straightens his spine.

Mr. Finch gives John a brief look before curling his fingers in a __come hither__ gesture, not bothering to speak. For a moment John gets that feeling like he missed a step in a dream, that same tightening of his stomach, the split-second nausea of waking up with a jolt. Then the feeling passes, and John follows him into the office.

\--

The view is spectacular: the entire wall of the office has been replaced with glass windows that show a view of the staggeringly high buildings and sky above. Mr. Finch's desk is heavy, dark wood with a black office chair behind it. The rest of the office looks like it's been transported straight out of an interior decoration catalog, professional and tasteful, but without any personal touch. There are no framed pictures, no little knickknacks or trophies that John can see. It's probably designed that way.

“I'm a very private person,” Mr. Finch says, and John flinches at his tone. “You were looking around, trying to form an impression of my character,” Mr. Finch says by way of an explanation. He sits down behind his desk and folds his hands in front of him.

John swallows. “I didn't want to be intrusive, Mr. Finch,” he says.

Mr. Finch raises an eyebrow. “There's a reason why I don't offer personal information to my colleagues and opponents. That kind of knowledge is a weakness in a business like this.”

John nods. “I get that,” he says. “That's probably the reason why you chose to use the services of the agency in the first place?”

The agency specializes in coordinating the transactions between clients and their professional subs, providing a kind of matching system very much like an online dating service. John knows that most of the clients on the list are wealthy businessmen, lawyers and stock brokers. Finch could be his first client, if John plays his cards right. Apparently Finch requested John after looking through some of the profiles, and wouldn't be deterred from his choice.

“Discretion is a trait I value highly,” Mr Finch says.

“I can assure you there's no need to worry about that, the agency and its employees adhere to the highest standards of discretion,” John says, repeating Leon's words exactly. The business motto, apparently.

Mr. Finch gives him a chilly look, probably realizing that John has been repeating someone else's words, but he doesn't challenge him on it.

“Let's get down to business then, Mr. Reese, what do you say?”

John's hands are sweaty where he is holding onto the contract.

– ** **-****

HAROLD

Monday is meetings and calls and a late evening signing contracts in Harold's office. The intercom on Harold's desk chirps.

“ _ _The Clarke papers are ready, Mr. Finch.”__

“Bring them to me, please,” Harold says. Through the window, he can see Miss Groves getting up from her desk. She wears a dark blue dress, a little too short to be called professional. Harold realizes this distantly, as an afterthought. He is aware that Miss Groves is a beautiful, appealing woman with a sharp mind: he wouldn't have chosen her as his right hand at the office if she was any less than capable.

She knocks on the door before entering, carrying a thick folder.

“Thank you, Miss Groves. If you're done with everything else, feel free to go home. Oh, and schedule a meeting with that annoying lawyer that works for Nelson Inc. Tomorrow around eleven should still be an empty slot.”

“Very well, Mr. Finch,” she says, placing the folder on his desk. When she takes her hand away, she lets it drop down under the desk. She gently strokes his thigh, her fingertips trailing over the fabric of his pants. “Something else I can do for you, Mr. Finch?”

“Professionally speaking?” Harold asks. He hands her a stack of signed contracts. Her hand disappears from his leg.

“Speaking in whatever way you want me,” she says. Miss Groves puts down the contracts on the desk, then she walks back to the office door and locks it from the inside. “You've been working so very hard, you deserve to relax a little,” she says. She closes the blinds on the window before walking back to his desk: slow, measured movements that show off the sway of her hips, her long, slender legs.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her. Miss Groves leans in close to him. “Let me help you relax.”

“Stop it,” Harold says sharply.

Her smile stays firmly in place. “Stop what exactly?”

“The seduction routine,” Harold says. He takes off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You're brilliant, playing the naughty little secretary who lets herself get fucked by her boss doesn't suit you, Miss Groves.”

He can watch her lose the act: suddenly, there's a dangerous little smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She hops up on his desk. “Call me Root, please. And no offense, __Harold__ ,” she says. “You wouldn't believe how many men fall for the little girl act.”

“I am rather certain that I do not want to know,” Harold says. “Now. Tell me what you want, and you will get a straight answer.”

“Straight, hmh?” Root croons. She crosses her legs. “Are you?”

“No,” Harold says without blinking. “Not gay, either, if that was going to be your next question.”

Root hums appreciatively. “Batting for both teams then? Good for you.” She runs a hand over his sleeve. “Are you attracted to me?”

“I think that you're very attractive.”

Root bares her teeth in a wolfish smile. “That wasn't the question.”

Harold leans back in his chair. He doesn't move his hand away from under her touch. “It's all the answer you'll get.”

She throws her hair back, licks her lips. “Have you ever fantasized about sleeping with me?”

“Yes,” Harold says truthfully, and her eyes glitter at that. “And then I discarded the idea again.”

Root frowns. “Really, Harold, if you are put off by the power imbalance, feel free to fire me first.”

“What do you think you'd get out of it?” Harold asks, ignoring the proposition.

Her smile is crooked. “Do you really need to ask that?”

“What I get out of it,” Harold says, “is to have my partners open up under my hands, surrender themselves completely. I have no interest in being dominated.” He closes a firm hand around her wrist, pinning it to the desk. “And neither do you.”

Root's gaze flicks down to where he has a firm hold on her arm. “You don't know that,” she says, voice low.

Harold gets up from his desk, finds her free hand and closes his right hand around it. He gets all up in her space, legs pressing against her, trapping her. “I am confident in my knowledge of people.”

Her pupils are blown wide, but Harold can see the gears turning in her head. “I like this alright so far,” she says, smiling sweetly, but she is telegraphing tension in every line of her body.

She strains up to meet him as much as her position will allow and kisses him, her tongue teasing his lips. “I can make you feel really good,” she says against his lips when they part.

Harold leans in closely to whisper into her ear. “Get down on your knees for me right now.”

He knows what she will do before she does: her legs wrap around his hips and her hands wind out of his grip with a surprising agility, and then he finds himself flipped and pushed down against the desk in her place, Root towering above him.

“I consider that a __'no'__ ,” Harold says in an amused tone.

Her nails dig into his wrists. “ _ _Bastard__ ,” she hisses, leaning down to bite at his throat. “You knew I'd do that.”

“You dislike not being in control, a feeling to which I can relate,” Harold says, smiling. “You and I want the same things, __Miss Groves__ , which is exactly the reason why we can't provide them for each other.”

“Maybe you'd like it, letting go, letting someone else take care of you.” She slides off the desk and moves to straddle his hips. Her dress has ridden up high on her thighs, exposing the lace edge of her stockings. “Maybe you'd like it if I brought you to your knees.” She pauses. He's soft in his pants, and it is impossible that she can't tell from her position on his lap.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her, a wordless rebuttal. Root sighs and climbs off him, smoothing down her dress. “This does absolutely nothing for you, does it,” she says, glaring at him.

“As I told you before,” Harold says, “I discarded the idea. Not only would it be highly unprofessional to get involved with an employee, but I believe that I know you well enough by now to understand that I can't give you what you want. And, by extension, that your attempts at getting me to submit to you would be futile.”

She huffs, annoyed. “Well, at least you're humble about it.”

He reaches out to touch the back of her hand with his fingers. “I realize that I have been manipulative today, and that I should apologize to you. Still, don't mistake that for cruelty: you are a very determined, passionate woman and I gathered that the most effective way to illustrate my point would be to give you a demonstration.”

Root chuckles. “A demonstration, is that what the kids call it these days?”

Harold straightens his tie and smoothes down the sleeves of his shirt. “Please believe me, if I thought of us as compatible at all, I'd gladly take you to bed. __Root.__ ” She shakes her head at the use of her name, but she's smiling. “Workplace ethics be damned,” he says.

She meets his gaze. “There was a chance, no matter how small, that you __would__ end up liking it the moment I had you pinned against that desk,” she says. “So the risk was worth it?”

Harold smoothes down the material of his vest. “Honestly, there are only a handful of people I have met in my life I even considered granting that power over me. You should feel flattered.”

“Pity we're both such control freaks, I guess,” Root says. She leans in to brush a kiss against his cheek. He places a hand on her arm, then takes her hand and moves it up to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand. “Do you forgive my unconventional approach?”

She squeezes his hand before disentangling herself and gathering the papers from his desk. “No offense, but you're kind of an asshole. __Sir.”__

“None taken,” Harold answers, smirking. He takes his seat at his desk again.

“You should call it a day soon, too,” Root says, already halfway out of the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Finch.”

“Goodnight, Miss Groves.”

–

JOHN

John looks at the creme colored card in his palm. The corners are curling back a little after all the times he pulled it out of his pocket to study it. __Mr. Finch, CEO Kingfisher Enterprises,__ it says in black letters beneath the corporation logo, followed by an address. No phone or email contact details, John notes, smoothing his palms over his thighs and straightening his tie.

The entrance hall of the building is sleek, all glass and polished steel. John heads straight for the elevator. He takes out the little silver key that Mr. Finch gave him at their office meeting, finds the slot just above the button for the penthouse suite and sticks the key inside. He turns it, and a little green light flashes on. The elevator starts up in one even movement, humming softly.

John swallows, smoothing down the hairs in the back of his neck and tugging at his sleeves before he realizes what he’s doing, annoyed with himself. His suit feels itchy, the collar of his shirt too tight around his neck, and he’s pretty sure he’s already sweated all the way through the fabric of his dress shirt.

Leon told him that it was completely normal to lose your nerve before meeting with the first client, and that he should just try to get through it, that it would get easier. In John’s experience, that’s the kind of thing you tell people when it’s about to get much, much __worse.__

–

The elevator doors open to a large living room with amber hardwood floors. The rooms are a wide expanse of space framed by floor to ceiling windows that give an incredible view of the New York skyline. There are groups of love seats and chairs, a large fireplace, and a door that leads into the rest of the penthouse.

John walks around and puts his hand on the smooth marble of the fireplace. He steps in front of the windows to gaze out over the skyscrapers where the sun has already disappeared in a sea of glittering lights. A door to his right leads to a large terrace. John wants to open it and step out into the crisp summer air, let the wind blow into his face.

“You were able to follow my directions, I see,” Mr. Finch’s clipped voice says from behind him, and John turns around. Finch looks different than he did the first time they met: he has taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and instead of polished, expensive leather shoes, he only wears socks.

“Welcome, Mr. Reese. Can I offer you something to drink?”

John produces the signed contract from his bag and holds it out. “Thanks, but no. I’d rather start right away, if that’s not a problem.”

Mr. Finch raises an eloquent eyebrow. He steps closer, bright, curious eyes fixed on John, but his mouth is a firm line. He takes the stack of papers out of his hands and pages through them. “I see you made an addition in the 'off limits' column,” he says.

John tries to gauge if Mr. Finch sounds disappointed, but his voice is so completely even and neutral that it's difficult to say. That’s good: if he sees it as a business transaction, maybe it will be easier for John to do the same.

“No sensory deprivation, no blindfolds in particular,” Mr. Finch reads out, before wetting his thumb and turning to the last page. “You signed it already.”

John shrugs. “I figured you could live with respecting that limit. You already included in the contract what I’d have eliminated off the bat: intense pain play, anything involving blood or serious injury, things like that.”

John tries to sound like he knows what he’s talking about and not just rattling off the list that Leon gave him, things that clients might ask for and that might be out of most people’s comfort zones.

Mr. Finch makes a thoughtful noise. “That’s all you wanted to add?”

John swallows. His heart is hammering in his chest while he tries to think of something that he’d rather not do. He comes up blank.

A part of him is glad that Mr. Finch didn’t ask about the sensory deprivation. It seems like a mild thing compared to some of the stuff that John read about, but he’d rather not explain how being blindfolded takes him right back to a claustrophobic interrogation room on a military base in the middle of the desert. “I’m game for everything else,” John says, trying a smile that feels odd on his face, like a grimace. The interaction is making him restless, his nervousness showing. “The blindfold thing is a limit, but anything else - apart from the things already mentioned - I’m willing to try.”

Mr. Finch places the contract on a coffee table next to him. “No,” he says decisively.

John blinks. “I’m sorry?” The dizziness is back, and John is glad when Mr. Finch gestures to one of the chairs and sits down in the one next to it. John walks over, his hands clammy with sweat. He sits down.

“I don’t think you kow what you're agreeing to,” Mr. Finch says, looking straight at him, his voice a little softer around the edges. “How many Doms have you been with so far?”

“None,” John says, averting his eyes. “But I’m pretty sure you know that already.”

“I do,” Mr. Finch allows.

John huffs. “Why don’t you just sign the contract? I have agreed to a safeword and everything, if I don’t like something you do, I can just use that.”

“Mr. Reese, it may be difficult for you to believe given the nature of our relationship, but I’m not a sadist. I don’t enjoy causing people pain, humiliation or discomfort, I much prefer it if the partners I play with are equally satisfied by the experience.”

John is pretty sure that this wasn’t covered by Leon’s __Intro To What Doms Typically Expect From You.__

“And I think that you should reconsider your approach to hard and soft limits. Are you aware of the distinction?”

“A hard limit is something I’ll never do regardless of the circumstance, a soft limit is something I’d consider under the right circumstances and with the right person,” John replies instantly.

The corner of Mr. Finch’s mouth twitches. “Very good,” he says, voice warm with appreciation. He sounds honestly pleased, and it settles something in John, eases the restlessness he's been feeling. It makes him feel like being in the right place for once, and John wants... __more.__

“I know you probably feel like you can handle whatever gets thrown at you, but trust me, there is a wide range of … desires that you might not even be aware of.”

“Such as?” John asks, genuinely curious.

Mr. Finch tilts his head a little, still watching him. “Would you agree to be gagged, spanked with a wooden paddle, locked in a dark room for hours?”

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He has a sudden, intense visual of Mr. Finch bending over him, a smooth wooden paddle in his hand, letting it smack down against the exposed skin of his ass with a sharp whipping sound. John shudders. The idea is humiliating, and the thought of surrendering control like that terrifies him, but the fantasy brings on a feverish spike of arousal, too, forbidden and delicious.

Mr. Finch looks back at him with his patient, Sphinx-like expression, and John remembers feeling this way before: like something was trying to claw its way to the surface, some deep longing that he had bottled up and hidden in a dark corner of himself.

“Would you agree to indefinite orgasm denial, your Dom taking you to the edge, inches from completion, only to ease off, let you fight your own desperate arousal, before repeating the whole process?”

John can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Mr. Finch seems completely unaffected, his voice holding the same cadence as if he were talking about the stock market, with the slight difference that the recent developments in exchange prices wouldn’t make John half-hard in his pants.

“I--,” John croaks, and Mr. Finch apparently has mercy on him, because he takes a manila folder from the other side of the table and hands it to John.

“I have prepared a checklist for you that covers the most common activities in BDSM play. The internet should be helpful if you can’t place some of the activities, or you could make a note and ask me about them the next time we meet. I do admit that I had to check some of the more, ah, __exotic__ pastimes myself, it made for a rather educational afternoon,” Mr. Finch says.

John takes the folder, completely stunned.

Mr. Finch settles back into his chair. “You see, Mr. Reese, there is an element of trust in a successful relationship between a Dominant and a submissive, and so far I have done nothing to earn your trust. Maybe giving you a thorough understanding of what you’re agreeing to is a good first step? I’d hate to put you in a situation that causes you distress.”

“That’s -- Thanks, I. I’ll make sure to read it,” John says.

“Excellent,” Mr. Finch says, standing up.

John jumps to his feet, manila folder in hand, completely at a loss. Should he go? When should he be back? Are they going to do something tonight anyway, and is this just homework for later?

“I know that technically you’re not on the clock yet. I have not signed the contract, so it’s not a legally binding document, and you are free to go and enjoy your evening to your leisure. If you want to, however, you are welcome to stay and have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” John asks, because he’s perfectly sure Leon didn’t cover __that,__ either.

Mr. Finch smiles, and something funny happens: his entire face turns kind with it, and for a moment John feels warmth flood his body, the feeling you get after a long, cold night in the desert, coming back to a metal cup of hot coffee and a warm blanket around your shoulders.

Then Mr. Finch clears his throat and the neutral expression slides back into place. “It’s not on the list, Mr. Reese, it’s really just dinner,” he says, sounding vaguely amused. “A favorite restaurant of mine served a lovely Entrecôte Bordelaise recently, I thought I might have some delivered, along with a serving of their Tiramisu? It’s really quite good.”

With all the excitement, John has actually forgotten to eat, and he is suddenly extremely aware of the growling in his stomach, his mouth watering at just the thought of a well-cooked steak. “I don’t think you have to buy me dinner, you’re going to pay me a lot of money for, well. __Not buying me dinner__ before taking me home,” John says with a noncommittal shrug.

Mr. Finch seems to consider that. “You see, Mr. Reese, it is nearly impossible to make me do something that I don’t want to do. And yes, I realize the nature of our arrangement, and I harbor no illusions about the fact that you wouldn't be here if it weren't for your name on this contract. I’m not exactly a romantic, I __did__ give you an alphabetical list of the things you would let me do to you for money earlier,” Mr. Finch says.

John blushes, his neck burning hotly.

“So, no I don’t have to buy you dinner, but I’d very much like to,” Mr. Finch adds, stepping closer.

For a single, breathless moment, John is sure that he’s about to be kissed, pressed against a wall and __devoured__ , but Mr. Finch just makes his way to the hallway, turning on his heel in the door frame.

“Mr. Reese, would you like to have dinner with me?” Mr. Finch asks.

John has said __Yes__ before he has even consciously decided to, and follows him into the hallway.

–

John ponders the list one sunny afternoon at the park before realizing that he’s probably turning a treacherous shade of pink with every new item. He looks around suspiciously, feeling like the letters must be burning through the back of the white sheets of paper.

John gets up and makes his way back to the motel he is staying at. It’s the kind of place that serves as an in-between for people, those wanting to get away or hide for a night before moving on. It's built like a prison cell block around a large parking lot, dull gray concrete and garish orange doors.

John opens the door and lets the key drop onto the table. He travels light: his army dufflebag, still unpacked, two ironed suits with dress shirts that he bought from what is pretty much the last of his remaining cash (“To play the part, you gotta look the part, first,” Leon had said), a plastic bag with groceries on the desk. There are black-rimmed holes on the comforter from stubbed-out cigarettes, and the ceiling fan makes a humming noise without moving when it’s turned on.

John doesn’t mind his surroundings. He spends his days at the park or walking aimlessly around the city anyway, he just sleeps there. There’s no alcohol in the plastic bag, and there won’t ever be. John has learned his lesson: whatever answers you’re looking for, you’re probably not going to find them at the bottom of a bottle.

John sits down on the bed and looks at the list again. Mr. Finch was right, there is a wide range of activities that John would never have thought of, even more that seem unappealing at least, and a handful that strike him as just odd: who would want to pretend to be a table, and why would a Dom enjoy making somebody do so?

On the right side of the list, there are boxes that read “Hard limit”, “Soft limit”, “No special appeal, but I would do it”, “I enjoy that” and “Wild turn-on, would like as often as possible”.

John finds a pen on the desk and starts checking off the boxes, hard limits first, then soft, working his way through the list once before taking a breath and trying to figure out how to deal with the rest. John’s pen hovers over ' _ _Following orders'__ before he checks off 'I enjoy that'. When he gets to ' _ _Getting bitten'__ , John swallows hard, his hand reaching to his own throat on impulse. He circles the 'wild turn-on' category and moves on. By the time he has reached ' _ _Hand jobs (receiving)',__ the pen is shaking in his hand.

John has a very clear visual of Mr. Finch in his bespoke suit, pushing John down against the couch, his knees coming up to both sides of his legs. In his mind’s eye, he can see Mr. Finch bending over him and stroking between John’s legs. He can see him leaning in to nuzzle John's neck, John’s hips pushing up against his palm. The visual is intense enough that John can almost feel the slide of fabric against his cock. John puts the list aside and lets himself fall back against the bed, pressing the heel of his palm against his growing erection.

It's a rush to imagine proper Mr. Finch touching him like that. John is aware that the reality of their first encounter is probably going to be much less enjoyable for him: Leon had pointed out that John shouldn't get involved in sex work at all if he couldn't deal with the idea of doing things that don't appeal to him, of getting through something that doesn't feel pleasurable, or is even outright unpleasant.

Still, John is hard and the images in his head are appealing, and it can't hurt to let his mind stray a bit. Maybe Mr. Finch would tell him to hold still, would make him promise not to come until he was __told__. Maybe he’d do what he told John about, take out his cock and stroke him until he was almost close enough, only to withdraw, leaving John panting and needy, mumbling __please, please, please__ under his breath.

In a matter of seconds, John has opened the button on his jeans and undone the zipper, shoved his hand down his underwear and gripped his straining cock. Would he want John to call him __Sir__ , John wonders? Would he make him kneel, before or after?

John runs his thumb over the head of his cock, circling the glans, imagining Mr. Finch’s long fingers instead of his own. John’s back would be arching with pleasure, his cock hard and leaking in Mr. Finch’s hand. Mr. Finch would still be perfectly dressed to the last button, making John whimper and shiver beneath him. Something about that fantasy makes John's brain short-circuit. He curses softly, imagining Mr. Finch whispering silky-smooth into his ear, his clever fingers curling down around John’s balls, his other hand working him in long, firm strokes. John is so turned on that his rhythm turns urgent, unfocused.

He tries to imagine that gorgeous voice hot against his ear “ _ _You’re allowed to come now, Mr. Reese.”__ John groans and shudders, spilling over his hand, panting wildly.

After, John stares at the ceiling with a dazed expression, the thoughts jumbling in his head: __fuck fuck fuck that’s not how it’s supposed to go__ , the thrumming of his heart making him lightheaded.

He should probably circle “wild turn-on” for the hand job item as well, he figures.

–

It takes three more dinners at the penthouse until John starts to get suspicious. He knows that he eliminated some unpleasant activities with the checklist, but it has now been two weeks of Mr. Finch paying him a small fortune and inviting John to dinner every three or four days. Mr. Finch eats with him and they share polite conversation, and then he sends John home. It's making the skin on John's neck tingle with the thought of what might be to come: Mr. Finch might have some rather exotic tastes, if he feels that he needs to work up to it over the course of weeks.

John lies awake at night, imagining: scenarios, requests, all issued in Mr. Finch's calm, polite tone. __Take off your clothes__ and __Bend over__ and __Not just yet, Mr. Reese__. The worst part of is: as much as John has dreaded the unknown, the uncertainty of it, now he only wants for Mr. Finch to put the cards on the table, to hit him or fuck him or both.

Right now, Mr. Finch looks completely at ease. He turns off the light in the kitchen behind him and gives John a thoughtful look. "Sit down on the couch.“

The adrenaline floods John's body like a hot wave, and he instantly scrambles to comply. Mr. Finch takes his time even after John sits down, fussing around with the pillows, then the remote, turning the huge flat screen on and selecting something. John blinks at the screen, his heart beating rapidly. He feels slightly sick with excitement.

On the screen, a Hitchcock movie flickers on. John tries to remember the title, but he can't come up with it. Mr. Finch lowers the volume and puts away the remote. He sits down next to John on the couch. John's fingers itch to touch, to do something, but he waits patiently.

Finally, Mr. Finch leans back, stretching out his arm. "Lie down, your back to my front,“ he says.

John curls up on his side where Mr. Finch is stretched out behind him, a warm weight behind John's back. Mr. Finch has propped a pillow under his head, and his arm comes around John's side, resting lightly against him. John fights against the urge to ask something, the need to __know__ , and only concentrates on breathing in and out.

Mr. Finch moves his hand, gently stroking John's sides and stomach, wandering up his arm and further to his shoulder. "Unbutton your shirt for me,“ Mr. Finch's voice says, low and warm against John's ear, and John shudders. He starts with the top buttons and works his way down, his arm wedged a little awkwardly against the couch.

Mr. Finch tugs at his left shoulder and John follows his lead, turning a little more onto his back so his weight is half resting on Mr. Finch's torso, half on his side. With his arm free, John opens the buttons a little more smoothly, exposing naked skin underneath. Mr. Finch slides a hand under the fabric. His thumb circles John's bellybutton, then he strokes up to John's chest, fingertips caressing the sharp clavicles, the hollow of John's throat.

It doesn't even feel very sexual: Mr. Finch's touch is exploring, curious, but John still feels himself getting hard in his pants, every touch of Mr. Finch's hands going straight to his cock. Mr. Finch finds the trail of hair that leads down from John's bellybutton and follows it with his fingers, cupping John's erection through the fabric.

John gasps involuntarily, jerking against Mr. Finch's grip. "Hold still,“ Mr. Finch reprimands, and John freezes instantly.

"Good boy,“ Mr. Finch says in his ear, voice melting into that appreciative tone again, and slides his hand between John's legs.

John tries to concentrate on the movie on the screen, the gorgeous view outside, anything that will distract him from his own, helpless arousal. Mr. Finch is apparently half-watching the screen, half playing with John: his hand is moving up again on John's body, this time caressing John's nipples. John is relieved to get a little respite. He doesn't want to embarrass himself on the first night, and apparently Mr. Finch enjoys extensive foreplay.

John's experience mostly boils down to exchanging hurried hand jobs between the barracks in the army, the odd blow job given or received, making love to his girlfriend with her hair fanned out on the pillow, her hands on his back. He never really plays with his nipples when jerking off, and doesn't have much interest to try, except then Mr. Finch rubs John's left nipple between thumb and forefinger and John feels a helpless whimper work its way up through his throat.

Mr. Finch teases John's nipple into hardness before circling the nub with his middle and index finger and John's entire body jerks.

"Hmh, really?“ Mr. Finch says against his neck, using a blunt nail to circle John's nipple and then rub it again, mercilessly, and John realizes that the low, desperate whines he hears are coming out of his own mouth. The front of his boxers feels wet where he is leaking precome. John can't remember ever being this turned on in his life.

Mr. Finch's breath tickles his ear. "Undo your belt and open your pants,“ he says, and John makes a needy sound low in his throat. He undoes the leather belt with shaking hands, unbuttons and unzips.

"And John?“ Mr. Finch asks, absently kissing and biting at John's neck, making him shudder against him. "There's no need to try and keep quiet unless I explicitly tell you to. I want to hear you,“ he adds, and John moans when Mr. Finch gets a hand in John's pants, touching him through the fabric of his boxers.

John is panting, his hips twitching where Mr. Finch is just resting his hand on his erection. His free hand is sneaking around John's body to tease his right nipple, and John whimpers and pushes up against Mr. Finch's hand. John is desperate to come. The front of John's boxers is stained with precome, and Mr. Finch runs his fingers over John's length. The head of his cock is visible through the fabric, so wet it's translucent, and Mr. Finch lets his thumb circle over it, his touch translating even through the fabric.

John presses back with his hips and feels Mr. Finch's hard-on digging into his back, distantly wondering what he is getting out of this. Mr. Finch draws down the elastic of John's boxers and closes a warm palm around him. His free hand is still massaging John's nipple, every touch shooting a sharp spike of pleasure to his groin, and then Mr. Finch moves his hand slowly up and down on John's cock. John comes, white-hot pleasure surging through him, spilling over Mr. Finch's fingers, John's own pants.

When John opens his eyes, he is still tucked closely against Mr. Finch. He feels loose and relaxed, every light breeze against his overstimulated nipples making him shiver. Mr. Finch is absently stroking through the mess on John's stomach before raising his hand up to John's lips. John sucks a finger into his mouth eagerly, tasting himself and licking Mr. Finch's hand clean.

"Well done, John,“ Mr. Finch says later, when John is done, and John's spent cock twitches.

John closes his eyes.

\--

JOHN

John has dinner with Mr. Finch two more times. He misses most of the plot of both __Vertigo__ and __The 39 Steps__ while he's spread out on the couch withMr. Finch stroking and teasing him, drawing out his orgasms with infinite patience.

Every time, Mr. Finch nods to John after and orders him to shower in the luxuriously large bathroom, all marble and polished tiles. John lets the hot water pour over his skin and closes his eyes under the spray, his hands pressed against the cool tile for support.

The first time, John hovers in the hallway after, his hair still wet, waiting for his orders.

Mr. Finch gives him a dismissive look. “That will be all for today, John. See you tomorrow.”

John spends the rest of the night staring at the ceiling in his motel room.

The night after that, John slides to his knees after Mr. Finch made him come spectacularly all over himself. John nuzzles against the hardness of his groin, tangible proof that he is interested in the proceedings after all, even though he hasn't orgasmed once in the entire time John has been working for him.

Eager to actually earn his pay, John presses his mouth against the expensive fabric. He surprises himself by how much he actually __wants to.__ He was aware that the job might entail tasks like this before he agreed to the contract, and it wasn't like he minded much. Still, after three nights of Mr. Finch taking him apart and making John shudder in his arms, John feels rather urgent about wanting to give something back.

Mr. Finch strokes John's head softly with one hand. “Did I tell you to suck me off?” His tone is very gentle, but there is something in his tone that makes John freeze.

The next thing John feels is Mr. Finch's hand, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him back sharply. John winces, his eyes watering with the sting. Mr. Finch watches him with a dark, intense gaze. “Do you know why you got off every night so far, John?”

“No,” John manages. Mr. Finch's grip is still painful, and in a bewildered moment of clarity, John realizes that his blood is shooting straight to his groin again, his whole body tingling with electricity. John stops fighting it and sits back on his heels, yielding to the pull of Mr. Finch's hand in his hair.

“The answer is: __Because I let you.__ If you act without explicit commands, or disobey explicit commands, I might have to revoke this privilege. Am I being very clear about this?”

“Yes,”John says, “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.” The grip on his hair loosens abruptly, leaving a sharp burning sensation on John's scalp. John's hands are shaking with adrenaline.

“Get cleaned up, there is a change of clothes in the bathroom. After, you're free to go,” Mr. Finch says. He rearranges his suit and gets up with slow, measured movements. Mr. Finch leaves without another word, and walks away, leaving John behind aching and confused.

–

John gets out of the shower, touching his scalp gingerly when he dries off his hair. The clothes Mr. Finch mentioned are hanging from a handle on the back of the door, covered with protective plastic sheathing. John unzips the plastic bags. It's a black suit and a white dress shirt, and John doesn't have to be an absurdly rich billionaire to realize that the quality is sinfully expensive. The fabric is smooth and soft to the touch, the shirt a crisp white. John smiles when he finds a rectangular box beneath it that holds a pair of silk boxers, socks and dark black leather shoes.

John puts on the clothes and shivers with the way the fabric slides over his skin. Mr. Finch chose these especially for him, and judging by the way the shirt and jacket fit his shoulders and waist perfectly, even had them custom made for John.

When John steps out of the bathroom, Mr. Finch is leaning against the wall in the hallway. “Are they to your liking?” He asks, without preamble.

“Yes,” John says, mouth dry. The fabric is warming against his skin. “Thank you, I – should I wear them for our next session?”

Mr. Finch tilts his head. “They're yours, John, you can do with them as you please,” he says smoothly, and John feels a hot shiver running all the way down his spine. “Though I have to admit that I rather enjoy seeing them on you,” Mr. Finch adds, stepping forward and reaching out to adjust John's collar.

John stands very still. He has come barely an hour before, but at the light touch of Mr. Finch's hands on him, his cock still stirs with interest. “Have a good night, John,” Mr. Finch says very close to John's ear, and turns to leave.

–

The next evening is dinner, delivered to the penthouse from some kind of fancy Japanese restaurant that Mr. Finch frequents.

John shows up in his new suit, earning an appreciative glance from Mr. Finch when he enters the penthouse.

John notes the lack of alcohol on the table: on the previous evenings, he had assumed that Mr. Finch had to be off to an early start and preferred not to drink alcohol the night before, but John is puzzled by the absence of a bottle even on a Friday night.

“Would you like something else to drink?” Mr. Finch asks, when John sets the plates in front of them.

John blinks. “I didn't mean to --”

“I don't drink before a play session, and neither should you,” Mr. Finch says, placing a napkin in his lap. “I know that our previous … encounters have not been what one would deem risky, but I like to keep my head clear.”

“I don't drink,” John says, shrugging. He doesn't elaborate, instead walks over to his chair and pulls it back.

“No,” Mr. Finch says, out of the blue. John stops immediately, his hand still on the back of the chair.

“You're not dining at the table tonight, John,” Mr. Finch says. He snaps his fingers next to him at about the height of his own hip.

John looks down and realizes that there is a small, red pillow waiting on the floor. There's a dull roaring in his ears, his heart is beating rapidly.

John sinks to his knees as gracefully as he can manage and crawls over to kneel on the pillow.

“Good,” Mr. Finch says.

John waits. Mr. Finch rolls the chopsticks between his palms and separates them. He picks up a piece of nigiri, perfectly comfortable in handling the thin wooden sticks, and puts it into his mouth.

John tries to center himself, focus on his breathing. He has been growing comfortable with the way their evenings went: the orgasms were spectacular, and even though he feels slightly guilty for being the only one who got to come, he can tell that there must be something about their interaction that Mr. Finch enjoys.

Mr. Finch picks up a small tuna roll with his chopsticks and holds them out to John. John reaches for it on instinct, except then Mr. Finch says __“No”__ sharply, voice cracking like a whip, and John lets his arms drop to the side.

“Open your mouth,” Mr. Finch says.

John licks his lips. He doesn't particularly mind being on his knees, even though he feels a little like a dog waiting for scraps of food to fall off the table. John opens his mouth and lets Mr. Finch feed him the tuna roll.

The sushi is delicious, as John has come to expect. Mr. Finch watches him chew for a moment before turning to his plate. He continues his meal, occasionally feeding John, before placing the chopsticks next to the plate. The next piece of sushi is delivered by hand, and John carefully eats it out of Mr. Finch's outstretched palm.

Mr. Finch's gaze is unreadable. He offers John a few more pieces until the plates are cleared. When he's finished, John sighs and sways a little, sated and content: it can't be all from the food, he thinks – he has barely eaten anything. Above him, Mr. Finch cleans his hands on his napkin and then puts his right hand against John's neck, stroking the naked skin that shows above his collar. “You've been very good so far,” Mr. Finch says, and John closes his eyes and nuzzles against his thigh, feeling oddly at peace.

There is a moment of silence before Mr. Finch speaks again. “Tell me about your experiences.”

John frowns. “You know I never had a Dom,” he says carefully.

“That's not what I'm asking, John. I'd like to know what kind of experiences you have had in bed. If you enjoyed them, what you enjoyed in particular.”

“You have the list,” John says, his ears turning warm.

“I do,” Mr. Finch allows.”Would you rather just answer explicit questions?”

John nods against his thigh.

“Did you ever sleep with a man before?” Mr Finch asks. He slides his hand into John's hair, combing through it with his fingers.

“Sometimes. In the Army, mostly, though it's not... it's just something that happens. Tried a one night stand with a guy once, but it didn't work for me.”

Mr. Finch's fingernails gently push against his scalp and John leans into the touch.“Why did you decide to apply for this job?”

John shrugs. “I didn't mind doing it,” he says, because it's the truth.

They stay like that for a moment, Mr. Finch's fingers still carding through his hair. John could stay like this for hours, letting himself be petted, kneeling by Mr. Finch's side. Then he remembers the way Mr. Finch was hard in his pants after getting John off, and still not letting John offer him release.

“Can I ask you something?” John says. Mr. Finch doesn't say anything, so John decides to give it a go. “What do you get out of it?”

“Maybe driving another man to the point of desperate arousal is a balm for my ego?” Mr Finch says. John smirks at the touch of humor in his voice.

“I don't think that's it,” John says, pushing his head up into the touch. Mr. Finch presses his fingers down harder in response, scratching his nails over John's scalp just at the line between pleasure and pain. John sighs, pleased.

“You don't trust me, which is smart of you,” Mr. Finch elaborates. “Chances are you never will. I pay money in exchange for your submission, not your affection or trust. Still, the things I want to do with you are significantly more pleasurable when performed in a state of arousal rather than tense agitation, which is why I like to establish an enjoyable baseline.”

“Why does it even matter to you if I enjoy it?” John asks, honestly puzzled. Mr. Finch's thigh is warm against the side of his face.

“I know a great deal about you, John. You deserve to be taken care with.”

John huffs. “Whatever you heard about me, it probably isn't true,” he says.

“During your second tour in Afghanistan, you were a Sergeant. There is a very detailed incident report from a military base in Kandahar: a boy from a local village was trespassing on the grounds, and his dog got caught in a barbed wire fence. A group of soldiers made a sport out of firing at the distressed animal,” Mr. Finch continues, as if reading from a file, “You did not.”

John swallows. “No.” After a break, he adds: “You shouldn't have access to this kind of information. It's classified.”

Mr. Finch's gaze turns soft. He also looks as if John said something particularly dumb. “I also read the medical report that detailed the cuts and bruises you suffered when you crawled through the barbed wire to retrieve the dog and return it to its owner,” Mr. Finch adds.

John looks away. “His paw was stuck in a piece of wire, he couldn't get out on his own. He was panicked from the gunshots and had torn up his paw on the fence. When I could reach him, he licked my hand.”

“The dog knew that you meant well,” Mr. Finch says above him.

John turns to look at him, Mr. Finch's hand falling away from his head. “Why did you choose me? Of all people, why – why would you pick me?”

Mr. Finch doesn't answer for a while. “Did he say something?” He finally says. “The boy. Did he say something to you, after?”

John nods. “I asked a translator about it later. It was an Afghan proverb: __I've never seen anyone go astray who followed along the right.__ ”

Mr. Finch seems to consider that. After a moment of silence, he says: “I looked into the address you gave on the contract. Your current living arrangements are atrocious. You should consider moving into one of the spacious guest rooms. Your salary would be raised accordingly, since you would effectively be on call full-time. If you'd prefer living on your own, you should move into a more comfortable apartment. I'll have my assistant prepare a few suggestions.”

John blinks at him in surprise. “I don't... I really don't mind living in the motel.”

Mr. Finch places the napkin on the table and gets up. “Consider it a symptom. Your very own piece of barbed wire fence,” he says.

While John is still pondering that, Mr. Finch turns off the light and makes his way down the hallway. “Come to bed, John.”


	2. Two.

–

The bedroom is a vast landscape of black and white, framed by the glittering city lights outside.

Mr. Finch presses a button next to the door and blinds slide over the window soundlessly, giving them privacy. John stands awkwardly in the doorway. He hasn't seen more of the penthouse than living room, kitchen and bathroom, and the presence of the large, comfortable-looking bed is nearly making him dizzy.

Mr. Finch takes off his jacket in measured movements, taking it into a separate little room, probably a walk-in closet. John strolls around the room while he waits, letting one hand slide over the soft sheets.

When Mr. Finch comes back, he has changed into loose black slacks and a burgundy shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first few buttons undone. Even with his hand in John's pants, Mr. Finch has always been perfectly put together, still fully clothed. John's gaze rests on the hollow of his throat and then travels lower to where a bit of chest hair is peeking out between the fabric.

“Do you remember your safeword?” Mr. Finch asks. He opens a bedside drawer and puts out a bottle of lube and condoms.

John swallows. He's half-hard from just imagining what's about to happen, and seeing Mr. Finch doing the preparations, methodically and completely in control... “ _ _Red__ ,” John says. “For “stop”. __Yellow__ for “take it slow”. __Green__ for “I'm okay”. Like a traffic light.”

“Like a traffic light,” Mr. Finch agrees. He walks around the bed to stand in front of John.

John is sure that his excitement must show: his face feels hot and his hard-on must be starting to show in his perfectly tailored pants.

“Since we're just getting to know each other,” Mr. Finch says softly, letting his fingertips travel over the line of buttons on John's jacket, “I will also consider 'no' and 'stop' a signal to end the scene. There might come a time when we might want to explore consent play, but that is not something suited for beginners, and we would negotiate the details in advance. Even if you should forget your safeword, a 'no' or 'don't' will do. Do you understand what I'm telling you, John?”

“Yes,” John says, his mouth dry.

“Good.” Mr. Finch reaches down to close his hands around John's wrists, a firm hold like a pair of metal handcuffs, and John steps back on instinct, letting Mr. Finch push until John is backed up against the wall, hands pinned by his firm grip. “Stay,” Mr. Finch says, and releases his hold on John's wrists.

John presses his hands against the wall, palms flat. Mr. Finch unbuttons his shirt and leans down to nibble and bite at the exposed skin of John's collarbones, and __fuck__ , John goes from half-hard to achingly aroused in a matter of seconds, letting his head sink back against the wall to expose his throat.

“Good boy,” Mr Finch says whisper-soft, and John shivers all the way down to his toes. Mr. Finch is watching him with cool, detached interest. On instinct, John bends his head to bring their mouths together, but Mr. Finch stops him with a firm hand against his neck. “No.”

John freezes, his breath stopping in his chest. At his expression, Mr. Finch smoothes a hand down the side of his throat. “It's not that kind of relationship, John,” Mr. Finch says. “No kissing on the mouth.”

Before John has had a chance to process that, there are clever hands unzipping his pants, taking his flushed cock out, and John growls, a low guttural noise. He's conditioned to Mr. Finch's voice, his feather-light touches, and John's desire breaks over him like a wave, needing __more.__

Mr. Finch is taking his time, fingers caressing the sensitive skin on the underside of John's cock, thumb circling around the glans. “Look at you, so very obedient, so good at taking orders,” Mr. Finch says, sliding his thumb over the slit.

John whines, his hips jerking. “You would do anything I asked of you, wouldn't you?” Mr. Finch muses. “If I asked you to suck me off, you'd be eager to get on your knees and open your mouth.”

“ _ _Yes__ ,” John breathes, cheeks burning. He is surprised at the way it comes out: he is __yearning__ for Mr. Finch to order him to his knees, to let John pleasure him, suddenly there is no pretending involved at all. John has been waiting for the moment when he will have to force himself to surrender, to override his instincts. John doesn't remember wanting to surrender this much in his life. He remembers obedience, how good it feels to carry out an order to his superior's satisfaction. This is something else entirely: John feels like he might choke if he doesn't get to prove how good he is to Mr. Finch, how good he could make him feel.

Mr. Finch smiles at him, gripping John's cock and jerking him off loosely, and John pushes back against the wall to keep himself from thrusting, pushing forward into his hand. It feels way too good, Mr. Finch's nimble fingers finding all of his sensitive spots. Mr. Finch leans forward and closes his mouth over John's throat, sucking a mark into the delicate skin, and John curses and comes, his knees going weak with it.

Before he has even had time to recover, Mr. Finch is already whispering into his ear, breath hot against John's skin. “Undress and lie down on the bed.”

John's hands are shaking when he pulls down his pants and underwear and sheds his shirt. Mr. Finch watches him avidly, gaze traveling over John's skin. “Get down on your knees for me,” Mr. Finch says. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't __have__ to, not when John's legs are essentially giving out from under him.

Mr. Finch walks the distance over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. “Come here,” he says.

John's cock is still dripping with come, his heart beating wildly when he crawls over the floor to the bed. Mr. Finch watches him, absently pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants. John climbs onto the bed to join him, letting Mr Finch guide him onto his back.

Mr. Finch, still dressed in slacks and shirt, positions himself so he is seated between John's thighs.

“Spread your legs for me,” Mr. Finch says, and John __whimpers__ at the sound of his voice, obeying.

Mr. Finch warms up lube in his hands and slicks up John's hole before experimentally pushing a fingertip inside. It's a strange sensation, but the stretch isn't unpleasant. It takes an eternity, and Mr. Finch occasionally stops to add more lube while he moves his finger in a circular motion.

“Did you ever experience prostate stimulation before, John?” Mr. Finch asks. He is exerting gentle, continuous pressure, and John does his best to relax into it, to let himself turn pliant beneath Mr. Finch's hands.

“No, I never, --”

Mr. Finch pushes in deeper, crooking his finger, and suddenly a hot jolt runs through John's body like a strike of lightning, making him throw his head back and moan loudly.

“What,” John pants, “did you just do?”

Mr. Finch does nothing to hide his smug smile. “The prostate is a remarkable little organ, you know,” he says. He moves his finger and John's cock twitches, and for a moment John is sure that he's going to come, before the pressure lessens again: pleasure flowing through him like the waves of an ocean.

“It can provide a variety of pleasurable feelings, from the sensation of immediate ejaculation...” Mr. Finch presses down and John feels right on the edge again, pleasure coiling low in his spine. “... to the control of ejaculation. You know, it is entirely possible to keep you from coming even if you were jerking yourself off.”

John makes a needy sound, his cock jerking. Mr. Finch leans down to lick at the inside of John's thigh, biting him playfully.“I could keep you on the edge for hours with just the tip of my finger.”

Mr. Finch works slowly, patiently, spreading John open, and John moans at the touch, a steady stream of sounds until Mr. Finch has two fingers buried inside, stroking that sweet spot that makes John shudder. John is writhing underneath Mr. Finch's touch, aching for something, _ _anything.__ He is so overwhelmed and sensitive that he can feel himself clenching around Mr. Finch's fingers in desperation.

“Touch yourself,” Mr. Finch orders, and John whimpers when he closes his hand around his softening cock. “Harder,” Mr. Finch says, fingers pressing against just the right spot, making John's hips jerk.

“Oh god, it's too much,” John moans, hand moving steadily over his sensitized cock.

Mr. Finch gives him a steady glance. “What color, John?” He asks, not moving his hand.

John blinks, confused, before his hazy mind remembers. He realizes that he doesn't want to call it off at all. “ _ _Green__ ,” John says, confidently.

Mr. Finch gives him a soft, secretive smile and runs the thumb of his free hand over the back of John's where he is slowly touching himself. “You're doing brilliantly, John,” Mr. Finch whispers, and John feels his entire body heat up.

Mr. Finch removes his fingers from John's ass, wipes off his hand and takes a condom out of its foil packet, his own erection tenting his expensive trousers. John keeps stroking himself, his hips pushing up even when the sensation is half pleasure, half pain, panting desperately.

Mr. Finch undresses, and John lets his eyes travel over his body. Mr. Finch's chest is covered in a dusting of dark hair, and John looks down over the softness of his belly to where his cock is hard and flushed, leaking precome. Mr. Finch puts the condom on himself, scoots closer and then pushes in with the blunt head of his cock. John feels the air rush out of his lungs, his muscles clenching at the stretch.

“Shh, it's alright John, try to relax into it, let me do the work,” Mr. Finch says, and his voice sounds __kind.__ John actually manages to make himself relax, and oh, it feels incredible.

John hears himself start to beg, oddly removed from his own body. “Please, yes, need to come, __oh, please__ ”, his hand slick around his cock, thighs quivering, and Mr. Finch pushes in, making John whine and push against him, wanting him closer.

“Pinch your nipples,” Mr. Finch says, voice all steel and determination, and John moves his free hand up to his chest to rub a nipple between his fingers, hard. The effect is immediate: John moans and drips come over his hand and stomach. He is nearly sobbing with the force of his release.

Mr. Finch smiles warmly, fucking John in slow, sure thrusts. John goes completely limp, all the tension draining out of him, his hand still curled obediently around his cock. Mr. Finch aims for a different spot now, and it feels so good John is nearly blacking out with pleasure. By now he is begging and whining for more, faster, harder. Mr. Finch keeps up a steady rhythm, thrusting in until John has screamed himself hoarse.

“You're doing so well, John, I'm sure you can get off one more time, don't you think?”

John grabs the sheets until his knuckles turn white. “Please, please, __please__ ,” he whines, unable to form any other word.

“My very good boy,” Mr. Finch says, hips snapping against John's, “Let me make you come again, I know you can do it.”

John consciously relaxes his muscles and throws his head back, surrendering. Mr. Finch moves a hand down to stroke the skin behind John's balls, circle the sensitive skin where he is spreading John open, run his fingers over the mess on John's stomach.

“Was that a yes?” Mr. Finch asks, fucking him faster, harder, and John moans “Anything,” his eyes fluttering shut.

John's whole body shudders and jerks with the force of his orgasm when Mr. Finch starts nailing his prostate with every thrust, relentlessly. Then Mr. Finch makes a low noise deep in his throat and pushes in again. His hands tighten on John's hips and his eyelids flutter when he comes.

John barely notices when he pulls out, drifting in a satisfied haze. Mr. Finch leans down between John's legs to lick him clean, suck John's soft cock into his mouth, run his tongue over the glans in circles. John whines, biting down on his lip, hips pushing up against Mr. Finch's warm mouth.

He feels blissfully sore, every touch of Mr. Finch's tongue against his skin a sharp spike of pleasure.

Mr. Finch puts his mouth all over John, runs his hands over the inside of John's thighs and then bends down to lick where he is soft and open. John's voice breaks when he starts begging again, “Oh, yes, please, more,” tears streaming over his cheeks while Mr. Finch drives him out of his mind.

John slips under almost instantly after, distantly aware of the softness of a warm washcloth and a towel, the soft sheets over his body, the warmth of Mr. Finch's body next to him.

****\--** **

 

HAROLD

_**_**US Military base in Afghanistan, Classified Location, 8 years ago.** _ ** _

_Harold mops at his face with a handkerchief. “I don't see why we had to drive all the way out of here just so you can show me some generators,” he says._

_“I thought you might want to see your product out in the wild,” the man says, leading the way._

_There is the sound of gunshots, the howling of laughter._

_Harold can hear the shrill whine of an animal. It sounds like a dog. “What's going on over there?” Harold asks._

_“You wait here, Mr. Finch,” the man says, hurrying towards a building._

_Harold doesn't wait._

–

Harold Finch can't sleep. It's been two hours since he knelt down on the mattress to run a warm washcloth over John's body, murmured to him in a soothing voice. John looked like he was already asleep after his last orgasm, a forceful full-body shudder that left him sobbing and wrecked.

Harold kept him awake for long enough to get small sips of water into him, feed him bits of chocolate so his blood sugar wouldn't crash after the exertion. Harold has learned the hard way that aftercare is an aspect that should never be neglected by a Dom, so he took his time even when John was probably too out of it to hear him: “You've done so very well, you're so good for me, John.”

In conclusion, Harold thinks, remembering his own, toe-curling orgasm with a little hitch in his breathing, it would be fair to say that John has surpassed Harold's expectations by far. John is sleeping curled up on his side, shifting closer even when the bed is offering plenty of room. His sleep is calm: he must be completely exhausted. Harold wonders what John Reese dreams about.

Harold's mind keeps turning in circles, flashing back to the moment when he was kneeling between John's thighs, struck by the powerful, commanding urge to __make it good for him,__ not just to make him come apart between Harold's hands. He knows that it's not uncommon to feel protective, even affectionate towards a sub, but the force of his reaction had surprised him.

Harold turns so he can watch John's features, the slack line of his mouth. He could feel the exact moment when John tensed up, but the second Harold should have ordered him to let go, all he wanted was _ _to make him better.__

Harold prides himself on his self-restraint, but he can't resist: he traces the lines of John's face, relaxed in his sleep. Harold's thumb strokes the line of John's lower lip, feeling the trace of stubble on his skin. John stirs in his sleep. He shifts closer, pressing his open, warm mouth against Harold's skin. Harold shudders. He exerts pressure on John's neck, his shoulders, and John sighs and comes willingly, moving closer until he's pressed up against Harold's side, breath warm against Harold's throat.

 _ _This is going to be a problem,__ Harold thinks, before he surrenders to the pull of sleep and lets himself be dragged under.

–

Harold opens his eyes and feels warm, and comfortable, and then, at once, desperately aroused. A moan escapes his lips before he can get a hold of himself. When he looks down, he feels a hot shiver run down his back: John is lying between his legs, hair mussed up and still completely naked, leisurely sucking the tip of Harold's cock into his mouth.

Harold's hips jerk instinctively, and John growls in approval, watching him from under heavy-lidded eyes.

“John,” Harold croaks, reaching out to touch his hair. John freezes, gaze still fixed on him, his gaze dark and intense. He's asking permission, Harold realizes.

“I know you didn't give me an order,” John says. “You can punish me if you want to.”

John's cheeks are pink, his body warm where it's pressed against Harold's legs, and Harold realizes that it's not a chore, not some kind of task John has to check off, that he wants, he __needs –__

“Please do go on,” Harold says softly.

John flicks his tongue against the head of Harold's cock and grins before swallowing him down in one smooth move. Harold draws in a sharp breath, trying to control himself. He feels rather urgent about coming, but he also wants to draw it out, study the way John's lips close around his cock. John has one hand between his own legs, touching himself, and maybe Harold should tell him off, should tell him to wait, but, oh, Harold can't __think__.

John relaxes his throat and moves his head up and down, pulling off completely to tease the tip of Harold's cock with his tongue. It's sinfully good, Harold's hand carding loosely through John's hair, just resting there, encouraging.

“Is that how you do it?” Harold asks, managing to sound level, barely affected. He can feel John flinch at the sound of his voice, moaning around Harold's cock. “When you're alone in your bed, is this how you like to touch yourself?”

John's hand works on his own cock in rhythmic strokes. He still circles the glans of Harold's cock with his tongue, and Harold bites down hard to keep himself from whimpering, from making the low, desperate noises that threaten to come out of his mouth. Then, John bats his long, dark eyelashes, blinking once.

“Yes?” Harold asks, shuddering when John closes his lips around him again and does a trick with his tongue that is patently unfair.“Are you feeling sore from last night?” Harold asks, before he can decide if the question is appropriate or not.

John is still sucking him off, gaze fixed on Harold. He blinks once, twice. __No.__

Harold tries to think about taxes, refunds, stock options, but he could come just from watching John's eager mouth work, his red, shiny lips, the way he looks up at Harold from under his lashes, curling his tongue against him. Harold can see John's hand speeding up, the grip on his cock looking almost painful.

“Does it turn you on to do this for me, to make me feel good?” Harold asks. He tries to sound indifferent, as if the answer doesn't matter.

John makes sure that Harold holds his gaze before he blinks, once. __Yes.__

Harold's orgasm hits him unexpectedly and he gasps when he spills into John's mouth, sweet-hot pleasure surging through him. John's throat works when he swallows, then he pulls off a bit for a taste, licking Harold clean. Harold moans, unable to hold himself back, shivering with the aftershocks.

He can't forget the expression in John's eyes: __Yes.__

–

The storefront could be missed by the unassuming eye, and that's how Harold likes it. Maybe it's the way the little store is framed between the polished glass windows of a bakery and a jewelry store, retreating into the background on a busy street. __Margill's__ has been selling handbags and excellent leather shoes for more than a decade.

Harold opens the door and steps inside, greeted by the chime of a golden bell hanging over the door.

The smell of leather lingers in the warm air. Harold takes off his scarf and makes his way into the back room, where the clerk holds the door open for him.

“Mr. Egret.” Harold nods slightly, looking down at the flat, rectangular box that sits in front of him on the counter.

“Is everything exactly the way I requested?” Harold asks. He opens the box carefully, inspecting the item that rests inside.

The clerk, who has been cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief, quickly puts them back on. “It is custom-made exactly to the measurements you have given us, Mr. Egret. The material is the best quality available in this price range – or rather, in any price range imaginable, I guess,” he says, chuckling nervously. “I regret to inform you that the end result... rather surpasses our initial approximation -”

“Money isn't an issue,” Harold says airily, closing the box.

“Of course not,” the clerk says with round, astonished eyes behind his glasses. Harold can feel his disbelieving stare at the back of his head all the way to the door.

–

The box sits on Harold's bed, opened. Inside of the dark blue lining inside rests a slim, black leather collar.

Harold is undressing, folding his clothes meticulously as he sheds them, occasionally eyeing his most recent purchase on the bed. He has been toying with the idea of getting John a collar ever since John was kneeling by his side in his kitchen, letting himself be fed. It has been itching in Harold's hands ever since to claim him, mark him, even when Harold knows that the only reason John submits to him is the generous sum that Harold stashes in his bank account.

Harold steps out of his underwear and runs his fingers over the exquisite leather, imagines John wearing it: how the color would look against his skin, if he would __like__ to wear it, if he would blush, kneeling in just his collar.

Harold walks over into the master bathroom and turns on the shower, stepping inside. He grows hard under the hot spray, imagining the way he would slide the leather around John's neck, the way he could tug at a leash or the collar itself, make John's breath stutter under his hands. This is dangerous, too, the way Harold wants __more__ . He wants to have John, all of him, and it wasn't supposed to feel like this, feverish and overwhelming. It was supposed to be a business arrangement, an easy fix to a complex problem.

Maybe that's where he went wrong in the first place, Harold thinks, washing his hair under the spray. There are no simple solutions. He has made the mistake of involving emotion and play once before, with Nathan. All that it did was to drive his best friend away from him, and Harold is determined not to repeat the experience.

And then, Rick Dillinger. Always so bitter and resentful, and, even after all this time, still a sharp pang of guilt in Harold's chest. Harold was unable to make Rick trust him, to make him understand.

Rick had come to see his work as a punishment for past sins, because he expected it to __hurt__ even when it didn't have to. Harold wonders if John chose the job for much the same reasons: atonement, suffering for past sins. John may have been overwhelmed, amazed by what he felt - but it's not, Harold reminds himself, about __him.__ Submission is in John's nature, and if Harold can teach him how to use that inclination for pleasure, to make him discover his own needs, maybe he can give John something more than just money.

Harold touches himself, lets the image of John - kneeling, devoted, eager, __his –__ appear behind his closed eyes. Just to indulge for a moment, entertain a brief fantasy. He moans when he comes, an uncharacteristic loss of control, and stands under the spray with his eyes closed after, the tile slippery and wet beneath his hands.

\--

The next night, Harold writes a text twenty minutes before John is supposed to arrive at the penthouse.

 

_LET YOURSELF IN AND UNDRESS COMPLETELY._

_MEET ME IN THE MASTER BEDROOM._

_HF_

 

Harold waits. He watches the city outside, darkness and flickering diamonds. Everything he could want at his fingertips with a simple keystroke, a platinum card swiped over a counter, and still –

There's a knock on the door.

“Yes, John, you may come in.”

John has followed his orders: he walks in completely naked, leaning against the door frame to show off. He has every right to, Harold thinks, watching John's reflection in the window. Harold turns around and lets his gaze wander over John's body. John looks down at the floor, head slightly bowed, his spine straight. Harold didn't tell him to take this position, but it suits him all the same.

Still, he spreads his legs just a bit, a small act of rebellion, his own act of seduction. Harold enjoys initiative. “Come here,” Harold says, turning around.

John does, walking over until he stands in front of Harold. Harold notes that John is half-hard and reaches out to run a hand over John's naked thigh. “Do you expect to get off tonight?” Harold asks.

John's breathing speeds up. “Not unless you want me to,” he answers. Clever boy.

“That's accurate,” Harold allows. He takes the box from the nightstand. “I have been wanting to introduce you to something new, I think you might enjoy it.”

Harold opens the box and John's eyes widen in surprise. Before he can say anything, Harold lets the box snap shut again. “Tell me honestly if you want it, I won't force it on you,” Harold says.

John doesn't meet his eyes. Harold waits.

“Yes,” John finally says, two spots of color high on his cheeks. “Yes, I want it.”

Harold puts a hand against John's face, runs his thumb over his lower lip. “My good boy,” he murmurs, and John's eyelids flutter.“Hold still.” Harold closes the leather collar around John's neck and pulls the end through the metal loop to fasten it. John's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

“Is it comfortable like this, or do you need me to adjust the fit?” Harold asks.

John is swaying a little where he stands. Harold had been afraid that John would be put off by the implication of a collar, the blatant display of ownership. Instead John reverently runs a fingertip over the smooth leather bound around his throat. He is fully erect by now, his eyelids drooping a little. John looks exquisite: he stands up straight, showing off his strong shoulders, looking like he was born to wear a collar, to be owned. Harold is amazed at how easy it is for John to enter sub-space, to let himself relax into a scene so completely.

“It's perfect. Thank you,” John says. His voice breaks a little on the last words and he licks his lips.

Harold strokes over the soft leather with his hand and John sighs a little. “To remind you where you belong,” Harold says, his free hand coming down to loosely stroke John's cock. John gasps and pushes forward involuntarily. His skin feels hot under Harold's fingers.

“No,” Harold says and John stops, keeping himself perfectly still.

Harold runs his thumb over the silky head of John's cock, finding the spots that make him squirm.

John's gaze is dark and intense where he looks at Harold. “I'm glad you enjoy wearing it, John,” Harold says, dropping his voice to an almost-whisper. “It suits you.”

“Will you fuck me again?” John blurts, visibly shuddering at the thought.

Harold has to suppress a smile. “Not tonight, John. We'll try something else. Lie down on the bed for me,” Harold says. He produces a vibrator from one of his drawers, weighing it in his hands. “Did you ever have a toy like this used on you?” Harold asks.

John shakes his head, eyes wide. Harold has to restrain himself from showing his glee. “Mmh. Do you remember your safeword?” Harold asks, more to stall for time than anything. He is convinced that John would have to be pushed to his very limits to even consider safewording out, and Harold has no intention to let it go that far. At least not tonight.

“Yes,” John says. He is presenting himself, Harold realizes, spreading his legs and baring his neck for Harold. Harold has been half-hard ever since he put the collar on John, but he can wait: there are more pressing matters to attend. Harold turns the vibrator on so that it gives a soft, continuous humming noise and puts it to use on John. He starts with his nipples, making John gasp at the feeling of the vibrations against sensitive skin. Then he moves lower to the skin of his thighs, stimulating his cock and balls.

John makes the most delightful, needy sounds beneath him, and Harold presses the vibrator against his perineum until John is panting, his cock dripping precome. Harold takes him to the brink three times only to back off the moment John nearly orgasms, leaving him shaking and desperate. He looks gorgeous with Harold's leather collar around his throat, flushed and breathing heavily, sweat running over his temples.

After the third time, John whines at the loss of stimulation when Harold takes the vibrator away. “Talk to me, John,” he says, knowing that John is barely coherent in this state, wanting to hear him __beg.__

“Please, fuck, I need,” John blurts, shuddering all over. “Please let me come.”

Harold smirks. “Is that what you want, John?”

“Yes, god, please,” John manages, voice hoarse.

Harold dials up the intensity and works the base of John's cock, his sensitive balls, and it doesn't take long until John groans deeply and comes all over himself. Harold chooses a lighter vibration and keeps working on John: running the toy over John's sensitive cock, the spot behind his balls that makes him scream. John is panting desperately.

“You wanted to come,” Harold observes casually, leaning down to draw John's softening cock into his mouth.

John whines, and Harold flicks his tongue and listens to every sound, enjoying the way John is falling apart under his hands, feeling pain and pleasure at the same time, the overwhelming stimuli that Harold doles out. Harold lets the tip of the vibrator rest against John's anus and draws slow, torturous circles there. John's whole body jerks, trying to get away or maybe get __closer,__ his body aching and yet wanting more.

Harold pops open a bottle of lube and slicks up his fingers before working John open patiently, sliding a finger inside to stroke his prostate while he keeps the vibrator working against the base of John's cock. John is sobbing, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Harold doesn't know how many times John came: there is fresh come on his belly, and John's soft cock is still twitching with every movement of Harold's index finger.

“You should be more careful what you wish for, John,” Harold says, pressing down, and John jerks violently while Harold is milking him, his head thrown back against the pillow.

John goes completely boneless beneath him, blacking out immediately. Harold goes to work on a few preparations and then nudges him awake with a hand on his shoulder. “Get up,” Harold says.

John groans when he moves, probably feeling sore all over. He blinks, a little disoriented, but follows along anyway. Harold leads him into the spacious master bathroom where he has filled the bathtub with steaming water and white foam, an exquisite scent wafting through the air. John is pliant and agreeable, leaning against Harold as if he would fall down when standing on his own.

Harold removes the collar carefully and puts it back into the box. He checks the water temperature with his hand. “Get into the tub, John, there you go,” Harold mumbles softly, his hands never leaving John's body. John is incredibly beautiful, sinking into the hot water with his long, relaxed limbs.

Harold rolls up his sleeves up to his elbows, then takes a soft sponge and cleans John thoroughly, washes his hair with expensive shampoo. John sighs, leaning into every touch, eyes huge and grateful.

“Harold,” he says, once, when Harold is massaging his scalp, his hands covered in foam.

“Hmm?” Harold says, but John just closes his eyes and sighs, relaxing against him.

Harold helps him out of the bath and dries him off with a fluffy towel before telling him to lie back down on the bed. He warms up scented oil in his hands and strokes his hands over John's shoulders, his arms, all the way down his back. He kneads his thighs and calves and strokes down his spine while John moans gratefully beneath him, completely unashamed.

“I'm yours,” he mumbles into the pillow. Then, after a moment, he turns his head to the side and says, louder: “Harold – I – I'm yours.”

Harold pulls a sheet over John's body and then retreats to the bathroom where his own reflection greets him in the mirror. When Harold stands in front of the sink, his hands are shaking on the cool porcelain.

–

"I messed up,“ Harold says without preamble.

Grace raises an eyebrow at that. She takes an olive from the selection of food on the table and holds it out to the woman kneeling next to her, a gorgeous brunette with wide, sensual hips and a burgundy collar around her throat. Harold watches dispassionately as the woman takes the olive from Grace‘s fingers with her teeth, chewing and swallowing, then giving Grace‘s index finger a teasing little lick.

"Uh uh,“ Grace says sharply, tugging at the leash in her hand. The woman casts her eyes downward, biting her lip in a way that looks decidedly not sorry.

Grace takes a sip of her wine. "I like my subs to have a bit of sass,“ she offers at Harold‘s critical glance.

"Bratty, you mean,“ Harold says, but it‘s mild.

Grace reaches over the table for his hand. "Tell me,“ she says. "Is it about the new sub? What was his name, John?“

Harold turns his palm up and lets her slide her fingers over his hand. There was a time when he had wished himself different, searched himself for any impulse to yearn to the push of Grace‘s hand. She looks small, in her green dress with her legs crossed, but there is strength in her, a determination to her eyes, the set of her mouth. They met at a club: not Harold‘s favorite pastime, parading around in front of other people, annoying music turned on too loud. He understands the appeal of voyeurism, but he was mostly there to indulge Nathan, who felt much more comfortable showing himself in public.

Grace sat next to him at the bar, her sub - a different woman, back then, with red marks on her wrists like bracelets - knelt next to her, nosing at her thighs under her short skirt. Harold remembers their conversation about art and travel and music. Nathan knelt down in front of him and took Harold‘s cock into his mouth. Grace made the woman stand next to her so she could casually slip her hand under her dress, finger her while talking about the beauty of Florence, of Rome.

Attraction has never been an issue. Harold knows that Grace has had men and women subbing for her and has no particular preference either way, and Harold has been aware of his own bisexuality since his days in college.

"I believe John thinks that he is developing feelings for me,“ Harold says.

Grace waits for another heartbeat, making sure that he has finished his thought. "Interesting phrasing,“ she says. She has started on dessert, offering the woman next to her a strawberry. "So you don‘t think that he is?“

"I think that John is overwhelmed by the experience, and is projecting feelings of thankfulness onto me that he confuses with affection.“

Grace makes a face. "Bullshit,“ she says emphatically.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her.

"So maybe he‘s confused, overwhelmed. Subbing for the first time, with someone who can handle you well, must be quite the experience, I imagine. But I think we both realize that he could be head over heels for you, and you would still not notice.“

Harold huffs at that. "I assure you, that is not the case.“ He takes a sip of his wine. "And you probably remember how __successful__ my attempts were with Nathan.“

Grace‘s face turns soft. "It wasn‘t your fault, Harold. I know you loved him, it just wasn‘t a good fit, the two of you. Still, I am convinced that you are doing everything to take good care of the people who trust themselves to you.“

Harold opens his mouth. "I don‘t want to hear about Rick,“ Grace says instantly. She drops her hand down to stroke through the woman‘s short, spiky hair. "I know you blame yourself, but there is no point. You have a big heart under all that tweed and enigma nonsense, you just hate it when people realize.“

Harold feels the smile creep onto his face despite himself. "I‘m not sure what to do. If I neglected my duties, it could be a severe form of sub-drop, and continuing the way we have would do John more harm than good.“

"Look, Harold, you need to do what you think is best. Just consider that his feelings might be genuine, for a moment? What would you do about that?“

Harold blinks at her. "Let him go immediately.“

Grace sighs. "You really care for him, don‘t you?“

Harold avoids her gaze, which is answer enough."It‘s a business arrangement. He didn‘t ask to be... __involved__ in all of this, it is merely a professional exchange.“

"Not to him, apparently.“

"Grace, how will I ever know that it wasn‘t coercion? That I abused his trust that way, manipulated him into a direction he doesn‘t want to go? Even if his feelings were as you say they are: I pay him for sexual favors, for catering to my every whim. How on earth could I ever undo this, the foundation of this relationship?“

"I‘m so sorry, Harold,“ Grace finally says.

–

On Friday night, Harold hears the elevator doors open fifteen minutes before John is supposed to come to the penthouse. Harold doesn‘t bother getting up from his desk. He continues his work, ignoring the knock on the door for exactly five seconds before saying: "In a moment, John.“

When the desktop clock shows exactly 19:00, Harold closes the file on his desktop and calls: "Come in, John.“

A second later, Harold is grateful for his composure in the face of surprise: John has used his extra time to get undressed and fetch his collar from the bedroom. He is wearing black boxer briefs and nothing else, except for the dark band of leather around his throat.

"Good evening, Mr. Finch,“ John says. He is carrying a stack of papers that he carefully sets on Harold‘s desk, not meeting his eyes, before sinking down to his knees next to Harold, bowing his head.

Harold notices that John‘s lower lip is slightly swollen: he must have been biting down on it the way he does when he‘s nervous. The rush of delight Harold feels when he looks down at John‘s bowed head is unexpected: while Harold is fully aware that John has been performing admirably so far, especially considering his inexperience, his eagerness makes something in Harold‘s chest clench painfully. John has such a talent for subbing, instinctively choosing the right way to move forward without being told.

Harold lets a hand sink down into John‘s hair, petting his head. With the other one, he picks up the papers. John makes a satisfied noise, leaning up into the touch with his eyes closed.

Harold frowns. It‘s John‘s contract. "Is there something you‘d like to have changed about your employment conditions?“ Harold asks.

Then he gets to the page that specifies John‘s payment and finds it marked with a yellow post-it.

"I don‘t think you should continue to pay me as generously as you do,“ John says, leaning against Harold‘s knee.

Harold‘s hand stops moving.

"I feel bad taking so much of your money for something I actually enjoy doing,“ John says quickly, as if waiting for Harold to protest. John doesn‘t nudge Harold‘s hand to continue, just kneels there with heavy-lidded eyes, looking up at him.

Harold moves his hand away from John‘s head, closes the pages and places them in the middle of the desk. "I see,“ he says.

Oblivious, John goes on. "In fact, I thought I could get a job. Maybe on weekdays, while you work at the office. Pretty sure I could get something in the private security sector. I have a friend who could hook me up with something.“

Harold has always liked the penthouse view, the feeling of having the whole city spread out in front of him, like a book that opens readily under his hands. Now, the buildings outside just make him dizzy, like standing on top of a skyscraper in a storm. "We should have this conversation in the living room, and you should get dressed for it,“ Harold says numbly.

John blinks quickly. "I‘m sorry, I didn‘t mean that anything about this would change, I don‘t want that at all,“ John says, frowning. He looks up at Harold. "I just thought that there‘s no need for you to pay me, and I‘d make sure that the job wouldn‘t interfere with the time you want me here.“

"John, get dressed and meet me in the living room,“ Harold says, sharper than he‘d intended, and the order makes John snap out of it and get moving. He swiftly gets to his feet and walks out of the room without another word.

Harold stares at the window, fighting the urge to swipe off the contents of his desk with one frustrated brush of his arm.

–

 

 

John looks miserable. He sits on the couch when Harold walks in, hands folded in his lap. He gets to his feet when he sees Harold, body tense with anticipation. Harold gestures with his hand and John instantly sits back down.

Harold takes a seat opposite of John, the coffee table separating them. Harold has the contract in his hands. "John, I would like you to understand that you have exceeded my expectations and not to consider this a failure on your part --“

"What did I do wrong?“ John blurts, wincing at himself. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I. Please go on.“

Harold has the strong urge to cross the distance between them and cradle John against him, tell him that he‘s been doing fine, that it‘s not __his__ fault. Exactly this feeling is the reason why they can‘t keep doing this.

"You did nothing wrong,“ Harold says, as softly as he can manage without choking on the words. There is a treacherous part of him that wants to forget about the whole thing, go back to the way things were. "John, do you have feelings for me?“

John looks like Harold slapped him across the face. He blanches, not meeting Harold‘s eyes.

Harold nods sharply. "I thought that might be the case. Or rather, that you assume it would be.“ He rubs his temple where a headache is starting to form. "John, are you aware what the term "sub drop“ describes?“

"It‘s, uh. It can happen to subs when the scene is ended abruptly, or there is little or no aftercare,“ John says. His voice sounds hoarse. "It‘s a kind of altered emotional state.“

"Very good,“ Harold says, and John‘s face lights up for a moment before falling again. "Look, John, I know you believe that what you‘re feeling is genuine, but sub drop is a powerful phenomenon that can change one‘s perception significantly.“

John stares at him. "You think I‘m suffering from sub drop?“ He asks.

Harold presses his lips together. "I think I have underestimated the impact that submitting would have on you. I apologize for that, it was careless and irresponsible of me.“

John opens his mouth to say something, but Harold holds up his hand, silencing him. "I am sorry that you find yourself in this position, it might have been avoided if I had taken better care of you. In any case, the fact that you‘re offering to sub for me without payment is just further proof that you‘ve been emotionally compromised by our arrangement.“

"Please,“ John says, his hands clenching on the leather of the couch. "We can just go back to the way things were, I‘m _ _fine__ , I can handle this.“

Harold allows himself to smile, if only for John‘s sake. It comes out as a grimace. "I appreciate the depth of your devotion, John, but the truth is that continuing this relationship is going to make things even worse. Sub drop can cause lasting psychological damage and you're in no state to continue your work. In fact, you might want to consider changing careers altogether, I would say that your mindset isn't suited to sex work in general.”

"I don‘t need a Psych 101 lecture,“ John says, surprisingly forceful.

"You don‘t know what you need right now,“ Harold says, making a note on top of the contract and handing it over. "But I am fairly certain that I have a good idea: what you need is to stay away from this kind of work for a while, if not indefinitely. You also need to get some distance from me, to realize that your feelings aren't genuine, but a kind of misplaced gratitude.”

"Are you firing me?“ John asks with an edge of hysteria to his voice.

Harold‘s hand shakes holding up the paper, so he places it down and folds his hands in his lap. "I am doing you a favor, John. As I said when we began, this is a business relationship, and as much as I regret to see you go, I believe having you work for me in your current state would harm you more than needing to find a new job would.“

"My current state,“ John says.

Harold expected the conversation to be unpleasant, but he didn‘t quite expect the look in John‘s eyes: he looks back at Harold like a wounded animal, something scared and vulnerable. Nobody should look like this, like someone else could reach inside of them and twist them inside out.

"You are very inexperienced, and I understand how you could mistake your enjoyment of the things we have done together as affection for me,“ Harold says, wincing. "I hope one day you can see that I was merely trying to protect you when I made the decision.“

"What about you?“ John says, his voice rough. "What do __you__ want?“

"What I want is irrelevant,“ Harold says instantly. "You have done nothing but fulfill my demands to the very best of your abilities, and I am quite proud of you. While I regret having to take the steps necessary, I believe that I am acting in your best interests by giving you a way out.“

"Do you?“ John asks. His face shows a bitter smile now, more resentful than pained. That‘s good: Harold can deal with anger, with bitterness. He‘s not sure how much hurt he could have taken.

"Yes, I do,“ Harold says, but it comes out flat like everything else.

"Yeah, sure,“ John mutters. He gets up and takes the contract. "I‘ll see myself out then, I know the way.“

"John,“ Harold says, getting to his feet. Harold considers a hundred different sentences, none of them conveying what he wants to express. "I am very sorry,“ he finally says.

John presses his lips together. He walks a few steps to the door before turning back. "So maybe I‘m emotionally compromised by this,“ John says, the words turning sharp in his mouth like weapons. "But I‘m not __scared__. I don‘t pay people to do what I want and then cut them loose the second they get close to me.“

Harold wants to correct him, tell him that __no, that‘s not how it is at all__ , but the words don‘t make it out of his throat.

"Maybe I‘m not in control of my feelings right now,“ John continues. "But at least I don‘t lock myself in a penthouse hiding from them.“

The sound of the door falling shut rings in the silence like an explosion.

–


	3. Three.

 

JOHN

 _'What the hell happened to you, Reese?'_ is the first thing Shaw says when she opens the door.

She wears yoga pants and a ratty shirt, her hands bandaged for boxing, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looks exactly the way John remembers her back from the Army: constantly pissed off and about ready to throw a punch at any time.

John has his bag slung over his shoulder, leaning against her door frame. "I“, he says and then has no idea how to continue.

_I made a mistake, I made a mess out of my life._

_I didn‘t know where else to go._

"I was wondering,“ John finally manages, "if I could probably stay for a while.“

"Is the sky blue?“ Shaw mutters, looking like he managed to annoy her in the three minutes he spent on her doorstep and pulling him inside with a strong grip on his arm.

John feels the corner of his mouth tug up the smallest bit. "Sorry to barge in on you like this. I just don‘t think I can stay at the motel I‘ve been for another minute, and the other alternative suddenly isn‘t an alternative anymore. I need somewhere to crash while I find a new place, and you were the only one I could think of who would take me in.“

Shaw walks straight into the kitchen and opens the fridge. She rummages around between the shelves and produces two bottles of beer. "Did you eat something?“ She asks. "You look like crap.“

"You say the sweetest things,“ John says, glad to slide back into their familiar bantering. He puts his bag down and takes off his coat before sitting down at her kitchen table. That‘s the thing about friends you make while being shot at in the desert: they‘ll always help you out, no matter what.

Shaw produces two paper cartons of Chinese food and throws them onto a plate to reheat them in the microwave. "You gonna tell me what happened or do you just need a place to stay?“

It would sound accusing from anyone else, but John knows that she‘s asking in all honesty. She would leave him alone and not ask a single further question if that‘s what he wanted.

"There was a thing with someone and it didn‘t work out,“ John says carefully. He thinks that she might kick his ass if he mentions that he‘s been subbing for money: it‘s not that she would object on any kind of moral principle, but she probably wouldn‘t understand it, either. "He, uh. Kicked me out, basically. I was the one who screwed up, so. He was right to do it, but it still came as a bit of a surprise.“

Shaw doesn‘t even blink at the choice of pronoun, for which John is grateful. While they basically lived in each other‘s pockets during their tour together, Shaw isn't exactly the sort of person to volunteer personal information. John was glad for that.

She sets down two forks on the table when she notices the marks on John‘s throat. The collar might have been smooth, custom made leather that didn‘t chafe at all, but it still sat snugly against his throat. John realizes a moment too late that the traces of his recent adventures in bondage and submission are etched visibly into his skin. The red stripes on John‘s skin are still there, as is the bruise from when Harold put a hand against his throat while holding him down, just for a few seconds: not enough to really choke him, and John had been __disappointed__ when he stopped: he had begged Harold for more, harder, his voice coming out as a rough whisper. When Harold closed a hand around John's cock, John had come so hard that he was seeing stars.

"Tell me his name,“ Sameen says. Her voice sounds carefully controlled.

"It‘s not like that,“ John says, swallowing. His hand comes up to touch his throat on instinct. The bruises are the last reminder he has, and even they are slowly fading.

She stares him down. "Look, I have no clue what you‘ve been up to, Reese, but from here it looks like somebody tried their best to choke you. That leaves two options I can think of: either you were down enough for them to be able to get a good grip on you, or you consciously let it happen. I am going to rip out their throat with my teeth anyway, so the point is moot.“

"It was consensual,“ John says, gritting his teeth.

Shaw raises an eyebrow. The microwave beeps. They have a staring contest while she decides if he‘s bullshitting her or not.

"It was a job thing at first, paid submission,“ John says. It feels odd telling the story like this: he‘s oddly removed from himself, like it happened to someone else. "Then I found out that I liked it, and I... complicated things, and now it‘s over. But this,“ John says, pointing to his throat and then opening his cuff links to expose the angry red marks around his wrists where he was tied down only days ago, "and __this__ was consensual. Even if you don‘t get it, you gotta take my word that he wasn‘t taking advantage. I wanted it.“

"He paid you money?“ Shaw asks. There is a muscle working in her jaw. "If you were broke, you could have come to me, I would have helped you out.”

"I know,“ John says, pulling his sleeves back over his wrists. "I know. It wasn‘t that. I got offered the job, and at first I thought, well, I have had worse, and following orders is something I can do, so why not.“

Shaw looks like she could rattle off a whole list of reasons __why not__ , but she still lets him talk.

John swallows. "And then, it felt different,“ he says. "It didn‘t feel like a job anymore.“ He looks up at her. "Can you understand that? That I figured something out that I didn‘t know was there?“

She shrugs at that and opens the microwave, fishing out the paper cartons of Thai takeout and placing them on the table between them. "I quit my first job here because I had a colleague in my security team who was... well, she was something I hadn‘t seen coming, so. Her name was Joss, she was.” Shaw grins. “She was quite something. So I get the whole deal about surprising revelations and all.“

"You think this is my version of a gay freakout?“ John asks. His stomach is still wound in a tight knot, but something in him feels lighter anyway. "That‘s not the part that bothers me, to be honest.“

Shaw loads heaps of fried noodles onto her plate. "Screw you, I‘m not freaking out. So I‘m also into women, big fucking deal. I just don‘t have the patience for relationships, and it only interferes with work. As you probably noticed,“ she says around a mouthful of spicy chicken.

"It wasn‘t that kind of relationship, it was just a business arrangement,“ John says numbly, listlessly poking at a piece of broccoli with his fork.

"Business arrangement, hm?“ Shaw asks. She takes a swig from her beer bottle. "Really, Reese, did nobody ever tell you that fucking the boss is bad style?“

He throws the cap of his bottle at her.

–

 

GRACE

She doesn't bother with pleasantries, she just steps off the elevator and walks right into his kitchen.

_“Harold Finch.”_

He looks up from his laptop. There is a glass of wine next to it, his tie loose and his vest unbuttoned, as relaxed as he ever gets. “Grace, I didn't know you were going to visit,” he says, giving her a puzzled look.

Grace pulls out her phone and finds the text message he sent her. “I am fine, thank you, I have been acting in John's best interest when I ended our arrangement, and I believe that” Grace raises her voice at the next part, “he will _thank me once he understands the entire scope of the situation.”_

Harold closes the laptop and gets up to get a wineglass from the cupboard. “Well, I might have been a bit more diplomatic during our last meeting, but I believe I did what was best for him under the circumstances.”

“You did what was best for --” Grace slams down the phone on the counter. “Do you listen to yourself sometimes? Or is this some kind of pre-recorded spiel about how you always just do what's best for everyone? You are real altruism personified; heaven forbid you'd have a selfish thought.”

Harold turns around, frowning. “Why are you so upset? He wasn't __your__ sub, it's not like this affects you at all.”

“You ruining your life affects me!” Grace snaps. She doesn't care if she's yelling, if her outbreak makes him look even more rational and collected. She has hated this, back when they were trying to make it work between them: how he would stay completely calm, treating his arguments like objective logic. It would have been easier to take if he had shouted at her. “Do you really think that you did this for __him__? He was perfectly happy with the situation, as far as I can tell.”

Harold retrieves the bottle of wine and fills up the glass, pushing it over to her. “He was in no state to understand his own feelings.”

The words hit her hard enough that she has a visceral need to smash the glass against a wall. “That's what you said to me,” she says, voice low, shaky. “When I said that we could make compromises, that we could find a way to make it work. You said I wasn't thinking clearly, that I would never agree to something like that if I didn't love you.”

Something passes over his face. “It's not the same, Grace. I didn't mean to drag up painful memories with this.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You worked really hard to push me away back then, and now you're doing the same to him, while pretending that you're protecting him from, what? Your awful, miserable company?”

“As far as I can recall, you were the one who left __me__ ,” Harold says. He looks at her with a tight set of his mouth that passes for anger with him.

“I left because I'm not willing to be the only person who deals with their emotions in a relationship, and with you all I ever hit was a massive wall of repression and denial!”

She has no idea how they got to that point where they drag up everything that happened between them, spread it out like proof that the other one was wrong. It would be easier to resent him if she didn't __love__ him, still, unwavering, after everything. “You're so determined to make yourself unhappy, Harold. I wasn't a good fit for you, we both know that. But John? He was __yours.__ The things you told me about him, he was good for you. And you have things to give, Harold, and he saw that and put up with your crap and the only thing you have to give him is a goodbye that sounds like you're terminating a business transaction?”

“It was a business arrangement, and I --”

 _“Bullshit,”_ Grace snaps. He looks up at her in astonishment. “You're just so scared that you might __actually care__ about somebody, that you might give them power over you. You know what? You're gonna get hurt, over and over again, that's what life __is__ , and shutting yourself off from people who care about you isn't rational or self-protection or whatever you're telling yourself, it's cowardice. It makes you miserable, and you only have yourself to blame.”

“Are you done?” Harold asks. Now that she looks closer she sees that his tie is hanging around his neck where he carelessly pulled it off, his vest buttoned the wrong way. Under the fluorescent light above the kitchen island she can see the shadows under his eyes, like he has been spending all of his time reading contracts and writing emails and checking off boxes. “Because I have work to do, and if you have any more to say on the way I live my life – or, more precisely, __the way I fail at living my life__ , I'd like to get that out of the way so I can get back to what I was doing.”

She grabs her phone and shoves it into her purse. “You're such an ass,” she says, turning on her heel. He opens his mouth behind her to say something.

“Don't fucking call me, we're fighting,” Grace says. “This is a fight.”

The elevator doors take too long to close.

–

 

SHAW

“I think this is supposed to be a room for laundry,” John says, ducking a punch and landing a kick to her side.

Sameen huffs and kicks his legs out from under him, because, yeah, nice try. “Laundry sucks,” she says. “I just buy new underwear. What I need is a room to train in, stay in shape.”

She has some nice equipment stashed in there, too: punching bags, a nice selection of weights, a few training weapons.

“Wait,” John says, __from the floor__ , “Do you have a living room?”

“I have a kitchen. And you talk too much.”

She waits for him to get up before punching him again. This time it hits, but he just chuckles, delighted. He's a mess, but she missed him, like a big dumb puppy. “You gonna tell me how you got those bruises?”

His face darkens. He picks up a jab pad and points to it. Sameen shrugs and starts hitting that, instead.

“I already told you, perfectly consensual sexual activity,” John says.

“That you got paid for,” Sameen says. The next kick is pretty hard, and he winces.

“Doesn't make it less consensual.”

Talking to him is like hitting your head against a stone wall. “Look, Reese, I'm not judging you. I just wanna know if you're in trouble, financial or otherwise. Also I wanna know if I have to punch somebody in the mouth.”

He looks conflicted for a second. She takes her hands down. “He __did__ hurt you.”

“Not physically,” John says, shrugging. “It was stupid, I shouldn't have.... it was stupid.”

“You can use his name, you know, I'm not __actually__ going to track him down and punch him in the face.”

John looks like he doesn't believe her. Sameen rolls her eyes. “You're the worst sparring partner ever. Hold that up.”

John raises the jab pad again, lets her land a few blows. “Harold Finch,” he finally says. “His name is Harold Finch.”

She has never heard him sound like that: like somebody reached inside him and flicked off a light bulb.

–

 

ROOT

“He requests a __what__?” Root asks, hands hovering over her keyboard.

In her earpiece, Leon's secretary sighs. “A recommendation to give to a future employer. A Mr. Logan Pierce, Mr. Reese was very clear about mentioning that.”

“He told you to mention that he had found a new job?”

The woman sighs. She sounds like she is done with the world in its entirety. “Look, I don't know what went down between your boss and Mr. Reese, but if Mr. Finch could write a letter of recommendation, that would be swell of him. Mr. Reese can pick it up at the office.”

Root purses her lips. “Of course, no problem at all. Tell him to come by this afternoon at four.”

The woman makes a relieved noise. “Thank you very much, Miss --”

Root hangs up the phone. Over in his office, Harold is frowning over the same stack of papers he has been staring at all morning. He hasn't touched the bag with pastry she left on his desk hours ago, even though it's from his favorite bakery. She presses the intercom button.

“Yes, Miss Groves?”

“John Reese would like a letter of recommendation for a future employer.”

Harold's hand closes into a fist on his desk. “Did he say for whom it was?”

“Harold,” she says, instead of _I'm pretty sure you don't want to know._

“I asked you a question, I believe,” Harold says, rubbing at his face. He doesn't sound upset, just bone-deep tired.

“Logan Pierce.”

Harold looks at her through the glass wall as if he's bitten into a rotten lemon. “I will set something up right away,” he says.

Root has a sudden, fierce urge to track down John Reese and scratch his eyes out.

–

“You should eat something,” Root says when she enters Harold's office that afternoon, depositing a stack of documents to sign on his desk. Harold only looks up from his laptop when she closes the blinds.

“What are you doing?”

She walks over to his desk to lean against it. “You're not going to tell me what happened, are you.”

Harold sighs. “Miss Groves, I know that I got you involved into my private matters by having you handle the contract with Jo – with Mr. Reese, but I assure you, there is no need for you to interfere.”

She thinks about pointing out that Harold's sub is petty enough to make sure that Harold knows that he's been replaced by a different dom, and a huge asshole at that, but opts to keep her mouth shut. She has never seen Harold this __rattled__ , barely able to get his work done, and it pisses her off. Fucking Reese.

“Look, I could find a replacement, if you want. I'll find someone suitable.“

“There __is__ no replacement,” Harold says, sharp enough to make her turn her head at him. He visibly deflates. “I meant, there is no need for you to find a new sub for me, I am doing just fine on my own.”

“No you're not,” she says, putting a hand on his arm. He doesn't exactly flinch, but she can see the tension in every line of his body. “He got to you,” Root says.

Harold looks down at his desk. “It didn't work out. Sometimes this is the way these things go. I'll live, Miss Groves.”

Root smirks. “Maybe you need something to take your mind off this whole thing.”

Harold raises an eyebrow at her. “I am not getting drunk again with you for as long as I live,” he says darkly.

She chuckles. It was that __one time.__ Then his phone chirps, and Harold presses a button. “Yes?”

“Zoe Morgan. Mr. Finch, I am calling about the contract we discussed over lunch last week?”

“Miss Morgan, of course. How can I help you?”

Root slides off the desk and closes the door behind her quietly. Back at her desk, she looks at the laptop clock: 3:45. She grabs a post-it.

_Mr. Reese,_

_Mr. Finch is expecting you in his office, please go straight through & enter right away. _

She tapes it to the printed letter of recommendation and places it in good view on the middle of her desk, then she lets herself back into Harold's office. He's still on the phone with Miss Morgan when Root smiles at him and crawls under his desk to kneel between his legs.

–

For someone who is getting his pants unzipped by his secretary kneeling under the desk, Harold's voice is remarkably professional. “You make a very valid point, Miss Morgan.”

He looks down at Root with an expression that she can't read: probably he's trying to derail her with the power of his piercing gaze. Root grins and slides her hands over his thighs. Over the speakerphone, Miss Morgan is talking about stock options.

“Yes, I would be very interested in that,” Harold says in the direction of the phone. Root takes his cock out, half-hard in her hands, and gives him an experimental jerk.

“Maybe we could make an appointment soon and discuss that in person,” Harold says. He looks perfectly composed except for the way his eyes slide shut at the touch.

“ _ _I'd like that,”__ Miss Morgan says over the line. “Thanks for taking the time to discuss this with me.”

Root leans forward to suck the tip of his cock into her mouth. Harold grabs the edge of the table.

“My pleasure,” Harold says quickly. His voice wobbles a little on the words. “My secretary will get back to you and arrange an appointment.” He is growing hard in her mouth, and Root smiles. “Have a good day, Miss Morgan,” Harold says and presses the button with more force than necessary.

She pulls off, but keeps him in her hand, looking up at him. “People like us, we don't always know how to ask for something that we need.”

He stares at her, carefully not making a sound. He's subtly spreading his legs, and she counts that as a victory.

“You have a very strange way of, ah, showing your concern,” Harold says. He still has one hand holding on to the edge of his desk.

“I aim to please,” Root says, nuzzling against his crotch. Then, a little lower: “Tell me not to.”

She waits. There is silence for a moment, just his even breaths, a little quicker than usual. Then, he puts his hand on her hair, carefully petting her head. She leans down and takes him into her mouth again, enjoying the way his hips jerk helplessly. Root thinks that she hears the sound of the door opening, then muffled footsteps retreating, but it doesn't matter, Harold is with her and safe and not thinking, and all is good.

He doesn't make a sound the whole time except for a little sigh at the end, shortly before he tugs at her sleeve in warning. She looks up at him.

“I'm close,” he says. She smirks and takes him in deeper, sucks more viciously, and Harold grunts and comes in her mouth.

She buttons him back up after, carefully, before getting to her feet. Her knees are red where she has been kneeling on the carpet, but she is thrumming with the feeling of victory, of satisfaction.

“I'll make sure you get a bit of time to yourself before your next appointment is due,” Root says.

Harold is leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, but that makes him look at her. He catches her wrist, tugs a little at her arm until she turns around to him. He's smiling at her, but there's something else in the set of his mouth: wicked promise.

“Sit down on the desk,” Harold says.

Her heart beats faster at that, but she also knows what he's doing: leveling the playing field, making sure that he's not the one who has been exposing himself.

“You don't have to,” Root says, quietly, but she follows his lead, sitting down and spreading her legs. She's wet, desperate for him to touch her, and it feels like he's seeing something that he shouldn't see: she can't pretend that it's just about the things __he__ wants anymore.

“I wasn't fishing for that,” Root says.

“I know,” Harold says, sliding his hand under her skirt and moving her panties out of the way. “But I have a feeling that you're not opposed to the direction I'm taking, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but then he leans in and says: “Tell me not to.”

Root swallows. “Put your hands on me,” she says instead, and he works her clit with clever fingers until she's clutching at his shoulders, trying not to whimper.

–

 

JOHN

The image of Harold getting blown at his desk might have sealed itself forever into John's brain. He retreats carefully, then walks down the hall and stumbles out of the office, the letter of recommendation still clenched in his hand. John jabs at the elevator button until the doors slide apart and manages to get inside. He looks at the paper in his hands without reading anything. Then he notices that there is a little sheet of paper attached on the back:

_John,_

_I understand that you are angry with me, but please reconsider your plans to continue working for Mr. Tao, if not for the reason that your motivations might be –_

John crumples up the paper in his hands and fishes for his cell phone in his pocket with numb hands. “Leon? Yeah. Tell Pierce I'm coming by his penthouse tomorrow to sign the contract.”

_“O...kay. I mean, it sounded like you didn't want to work for anyone else but Finch, is all, so I'm a little surprised that you changed your mind and suddenly wanted a recommendation for a new employer --”_

“Situation's changed, I made up my mind. I'll work for Pierce.”

John ends the call and browses through his contact list. His thumb hovers over the call button for “Finch, Harold” for a moment. Then the elevator doors open, people streaming out into the large foyer. John follows along without thinking until he is standing in the street, the sun shining into his face. When he looks up, he can see the glass fronts of the skyscraper, one of them belonging to Harold's office.

John deletes the contact in his phone and goes to meet Leon at the office.

–

 

JOHN

Saying Logan Pierce‘s loft is "big“ is like comparing the Atlantic to a raindrop: the place is __massive__ , open staircases leading to different levels, floor-to-ceiling-windows framing the large room that holds kitchen, living room and a vast lounging area. There is also a bar in the middle that would make any club owner jealous, filled with a sheer endless supply of brightly colored liquor bottles. Most of the interior looks like a rich sixteen year-old figured out online shopping and then maxed his parent‘s credit card. On his way in, John has noticed a console for all computer games known to man, a huge flat screen fitted to a wall, a whole collection of vending machines and pinball tables in a corner. On a platform, barely hidden behind a wall of flimsy rice paper blinds, the outlines of a bed can be seen.

John has filled out another list of kinks and attached it to the contract. Pierce is paging through it with a greedy look on his face. He leans back in the leather chair across from John, legs crossed.

"You know what you‘re doing, _ _John__ ,“ he says, giving John a flirty look. In his purple sneakers and sports jacket he looks more like a frat boy than a multimillion dollar entrepreneur.

John has half a mind to tell him that he doesn‘t have to waste time with seduction: he is literally paying John to fuck him, he can save his game. At first, John hadn‘t been sure if he would continue working for Leon, but it wasn‘t like John had many other appealing job prospects at the horizon.

"I was able to get some experience,“ John says diplomatically.

Pierce pulls a pen out of his pocket and signs swiftly, before handing both contract and pen over to John. “Let's get this party started, then.”

John frowns. "Something you wanna say first? Anything I should know?“ he asks. His voice sounds annoyed to his own ears, but he can‘t help it. This surely can't have been it: c _ _onditions, rules, what‘s the deal, what‘s the safeword,__ anything.

Pierce smirks. He leans back a little, stretching out in his seat. "Is this your way of telling me I should take a test drive before purchasing a car?“

John isn't in the mood for games, but he puts on his best seductive smile anyway. "Well, I'm not quite as expensive as the sports car you have waiting down on the street, Mr. Pierce. I'm just saying, you might want to give this a try first, see if I fulfill your requirements.“

It‘s not a lie: John has a bad feeling about the way Pierce‘s eyes wander over John‘s body, the nervous twitch of his hand. John could take him out in an instant if he had to, but that‘s not what has him worried. Pierce looks like a child playing with a loaded gun, finger on the trigger while pointing it at himself. "I‘ve given you a list of my hard limits, and I assume you‘ll respect them,” John continues. “Apart from that, I‘m willing to hold up my part of the contract. I'm just suggesting that we should figure out if the chemistry is there, first.“

Pierce barks a laugh. "Well, it said in your recommendation that you‘re, uh, what was it? __Remarkable__ , I think.“ He leers at John. “That kind of raises the bar, you know.”

John feels like somebody kicked him in the chest, all the air rushing out of his lungs. He didn't bother to read the letter of recommendation after getting out of Harold's office: he has no idea what it says. __Remarkable.__

Pierce's gaze is dark, hungry. "But yeah, we should take some time to decide, see if we‘re a good fit. Spend the next twenty four hours with me. I have a party here tonight, you can learn the ropes.“

John nods and puts down the contract without signing it. His skin is wet with cold sweat. He rests his palms on his thighs, hoping Pierce won‘t notice. "Sounds fine,“ John says.

"My name is Logan,“ Pierce says. "I‘d like you to call me that.“

"Of course, Logan,“ John replies, not missing a beat.

Pierce stretches out in his chair, letting his knees drop to the side, exposing the erection that is straining the fabric of his pants. "Come here and suck my cock,“ he says abruptly, giddy with excitement.

John gracefully slides to his knees and crawls over to comply. Pierce takes a sharp breath at seeing him on his knees. He licks his lips in anticipation. John positions himself between Pierce‘s legs and noses at his crotch.

"Get down to it, pretty boy,“ Pierce says roughly.

John makes short work of his fly and takes his cock out. John should have guessed that he would be going commando: he's naked underneath his thousand dollar pants, his cock jutting out when John pulls down his fly. John doesn't hesitate before swallowing him down. There‘s something off about it: Pierce‘s hand is resting too lightly on John‘s head, and occasionally his hips thrust up into John‘s mouth, making him lose his rhythm. John waits for the sound of a familiar voice, a different smell, Harold's presence to ground him.

"Yeah, come on, you like that, don‘t you,“ Pierce mutters. He's close already judging by his panting, the way his thighs are tensing rhythmically under John‘s hands.

The thing is: John __doesn‘t__ like it. He doesn‘t particularly mind sucking cock, and he has been prepared to go to his knees for much bigger assholes than Logan Pierce. Still, the whole ordeal doesn‘t ignite the smallest spark of arousal in him, not even when Pierce throws his head back and moans loudly.

John pulls off for a moment to lick the precome off the head of his cock. As far as he can tell, Pierce is nothing more than a bratty, rich kid, drunk on his own power and money. John assumes that the man should have no shortage of people wanting to fuck him or letting him do the same in exchange for a night in his swanky loft or their names on the list of some expensive club, but maybe there is something else to it. Maybe Pierce gets off on the knowledge that his money can really buy him anything, not just a companion, but absolute obedience.

John keeps going, circling and flicking his tongue in a way that makes Pierce gasp above him. He had expected it to feel different than it did with Harold, but still he waits for the rush of submission, that sharp tugging sensation in his guts that tells him to go down, roll over, spread himself out. John does good work on the blow job because that‘s what he‘s been hired to do, but he doesn‘t __need__ to please, that bone-deep desire to be good for somebody.

"Wanna fuck you, later,“ Pierce growls, eyes heavy-lidded, his fingers pressing down on the line of John‘s jaw. "Pretty sure you‘ll like that, too.“

John licks along the underside of Pierce‘s dick, making him groan. He‘s almost there, John can tell, moaning and writhing beneath him, and still John isn't the least bit turned on. While John doesn‘t mind sucking someone off without getting aroused himself, it‘s going to be a problem as soon as Pierce gets him out of his clothes and his lack of response becomes obvious.

John closes his eyes. The image is right there in his mind, startlingly vivid: Harold holding him close on the couch, his hands roaming John‘s body, lips pressed against the nape of John's neck. It‘s like the memory has been floating at the back of John‘s mind all along, waiting for him to dust it off, examine it. John's brain even has the tone of Finch‘s voice down: __"There's no need to try and keep quiet unless I explicitly tell you to. I want to hear you.“__

John shudders. __That__ works, his cock already half hard with just the mental image of Harold‘s hands on him, Harold‘s voice low and hot against his ear. John takes Pierce deeper, letting him fuck John‘s mouth, and then Pierce grabs his hair in a sudden, fierce hold that makes John‘s eyes water and comes down his throat. John swallows, his eyes fluttering shut, and then it‘s Harold‘s hand in his hair, the command in his voice sharp when he says "No“, and John cherishes the pain, lets the pins and needles feeling run over his scalp. He pulls off as soon as Pierce releases his grip. John sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fucking hell, you‘re good at this,“ Pierce says, staring dazedly at the ceiling.

John is still kneeling, his body aching with something that he can‘t name.

Then the doorbell rings, an insistent chiming that has John pause and frown. Pierce swears, pulling up his pants in a hurry and getting to his feet. "Crap, I invited the first guests at seven,“ he says, running a hand through his hair. "How do I look? Thoroughly fucked?“ He grins down at John and pats his cheek before sauntering off to answer the door.

John really doesn‘t want to stay kneeling in front of the couch with a hard-on tenting his trousers, but Pierce hasn‘t given him a __command__ , and he can‘t --

There‘s a flock of people streaming in, carrying expensive handbags and gift-wrapped bottles of champagne. John stays where he is. He dimly remembers something on the checklist that read along the lines of "pretending to be furniture“. He can relate.

The next thing John knows is that Pierce hands him a glass and says "Get up, man, you‘re looking ridiculous. Come on, enjoy yourself a little.“

John sits down on the couch and stares at the tumbler in his hand. It smells like Scotch, incredibly expensive, probably. The blood is rushing in his ears, unbearably loud. There are guests gathering around, a large crowd that has John dizzy with the carousel of faces and dresses and suits. There is music blasting from the speakers, a smooth beat, heavy on the bass. It vibrates all the way down John‘s chest, rattling his rib cage.

Pierce is moving around between the groups, chatting animatedly. He leaves John on the couch like a toy he got bored of. John can already tell how the evening will go: partying and drinking all night, Pierce high and wound up through all of it. He can almost see himself later, after the crowds have cleared out, lying flat on his stomach on the large bed while Pierce fumbles half-drunkenly above him, telling him how much he‘ll like it, how pretty John looks taking it.

There‘s a part of John that wants to lock himself in one of the many bathrooms, turn on the faucet and lean against the wall, get a hand on his dick and get himself some release. Maybe think about when Harold fucked him for the first time, or that time Harold used restraints on him, soft leather carefully bound around his wrists. Then John remembers that Harold Finch will never touch him again, much less speak to him.

John puts the glass to his lips.

–

 

ROOT

She regrets getting dressed up and putting on make-up for this: Logan Pierce is throwing one of his usual tasteless parties and most people are already so drunk that teasing secrets out of them is like stealing candy from an unconscious baby.

Root is putting down her empty glass onto a tray when she notices the bed in the corner, the flimsy curtains not hiding anything at all. She blinks. She's seen the man tied naked to a bedpost before, at the office: it takes her a moment before it clicks. The little __bastard.__

She makes her way through the crowd to give him a piece of her mind when she passes a group of people that has gathered around Pierce. He is drinking from a bottle of champagne in his hand. She can hear his voice booming through the loft. “... I'm not saying anything is off-limits, just, you know, don't break him? I just want everyone to have a great time.” He laughs. “Also I think using a condom when fucking someone is basic decency, so. Go ahead, what's mine is yours.”

Root frowns when she gets closer. She has seen BDSM play in clubs and at parties, and occasionally discussed the subject with Harold. Playing while intoxicated is considered bad style and dangerous on top. Reese is blinking, disoriented, frowning at the handcuffs like he can't remember how they got there. He doesn't just look drunk, he looks __high,__ and like he wants to run and hide, too. Whatever he agreed to beforehand: Root is pretty sure that this isn't in any way safe and consensual, not to mention sane. She walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it.

“Hello,” Reese says, tilting his head. “I don't feel so good.”

“I can tell,” Root says. She lowers her voice a little, but Pierce is still busy entertaining his guests. “You work for the douchebag?”

John frowns a little. “Didn't sign anything,” he mutters. “Hey, you don't like me.”

He's not wrong. Root takes in his disheveled appearance. “So, you wanna be here? Happy with the job change?” She leans back a little so she stays hidden behind one of the bedposts. “I honestly can't figure out why you would leave Harold to work for a jerk like Pierce, but then again you didn't strike me as particularly smart to begin with.”

John has trouble focusing his gaze on her. “I didn't __leave__ ,” he says. He looks miserable. “Harold fired me.” His eyes widen. “Is Harold here with you?”

“No,” Root says. His face falls. Jesus, he's a goddamn mess. Root looks at the half-empty glass of Scotch on the table next to the bed. Pierce is on the move again, broadcasting loudly how pleased he is with his new sub.

Dizziness, impaired judgment, confusion: Root makes a frustrated sigh. “You're such a fucking idiot, I should leave you with the asshole who roofied you,” she says. She gets up and disappears out onto one of the balconies, fishing her phone out of her handbag.

Harold picks up on the third ring. “Miss Groves, is something the matter?”

It's freezing outside, and she's shivering in her dress. “Did you fire Reese or did he leave you?”

“I honestly don't know why this matters now,” Harold says on the line.

Root huffs a laugh. “It matters because I went to great lengths to ruin your puppy's life for what he did to you, and right now it seems like he's punishing himself well enough without me.”

“What are you talking about?” Harold asks. He sounds alarmed.

“Look, Harold. It's okay if we're not friends anymore after this, I get it.” The city is a vast sea of glittering lights: thousands of people she doesn't give a damn about, and the one she can't bear to hurt. “Our little rendezvous at the office? I kind of set that up so Reese would get an eyeful. I thought that he broke your heart and wanted to rub it in some more when he wanted that letter of recommendation from you, so I.” She takes a deep breath. Shit, she hates this. “It wasn't __the only__ reason I did it, since I actually kind of don't hate you,” she says.

There is a pause on the line. “I know,” Harold says. “I kind of don't hate you, too.”

She blinks away the tears that threaten to spill out. “Look, I realize that you and I are six different shades of fucked up together, and apparently your puppy isn't as much of an asshole as I thought.”

“You're with John?” Harold asks over the line. If he has any opinions on her messing with his love life, he doesn't voice them.

Root sighs. “Tell me that he's a jerk who broke your heart and that he deserves to suffer.”

She can hear his sharp intake of breath.“Actually, I am the jerk who broke __his__ heart. Anything he did was mostly self-defense, I believe.”

Root curses softly. “Reese is at Logan Pierce's penthouse, tied to a bedpost and apparently drugged out of his mind. He says he didn't sign anything, which makes it sound even more dubious. You might want to take care of this matter.”

“How is he? Is he hurt? What did Pierce do to him?”

She can hear clattering over the line, like Harold dropped his keys and then picked them up only to drop them again.

“I'll make sure he doesn't get into trouble until you arrive,” Root says.

“Root?”

Her hand hovers over the __end call__ button.

“Please don't let anything happen to him,” Harold says, and he doesn't sound like himself at all: he sounds like he's __wounded.__

“I'll text you the address,” Root says and ends the call. Her hands are shaking.

–


	4. Four.

 

JOHN

The curtains are flimsy and half open, which is apparently the point: anyone who passes by can get a good look of John. Logan used a pair of metal handcuffs to tie him up: one cuff around John's wrist, the other one around the bedpost. It's good quality, none of that cheap sex shop stuff, but John could still get out of them in a heartbeat.

John can overhear the conversation around him. “He's really good with his mouth,” Logan brags, laughing too loudly. “You should have a go, if you want.”

“I saw him, I'd like to see if that pretty mouth lives up to its promise,” a man says. John's stomach turns with the acidic bite of alcohol, his own discomfort.

Logan's breath smells like alcohol when he comes back and leans above John, his cheeks pink. “I hope you've been enjoying yourself,” he says, gaze roaming John's naked body. “Fuck, you're hot.”

Some guests are looking at John with a kind of detached interest before moving on. Apparently naked people being tied to bedposts is not a rare occurrence in Logan Pierce's life.

Logan fumbles for a little plastic bag in his pocket, tears it open and pours the content on John's abs, a small amount of white powder. “Want some?” he asks, rolling up a dollar bill.

“No, thanks,” John says. His head is already spinning from the alcohol.

Logan shrugs and leans down, snorting the powder up his nose. He licks the rest off, rubbing it into his gums with his index finger. John has to suppress a shudder at the touch of his tongue, the forced intimacy of it.

“You know, I want to be a really good host,” Logan says. He absentmindedly strokes John's soft cock, and John flinches. John tries to mask it with a smile.

“I like to share my toys,” Logan says. His grin is feral. “Maybe I'll let everyone have their turn tonight, do whatever they want with you.”

John's gaze strays to the room, the noisy crowd gathered there. He could call it off, get dressed and leave, he tells himself. He didn't sign the contract yet.

Logan leans even closer. “I'd like to watch, of course: my friends riding you, fucking your mouth, your ass. And I have a lot of friends, John.”

“Looks like a lot of people have pretty bad taste, then.”

Logan turns around. The woman who spoke to John before, Harold's secretary, stands there. She looks bored, casually typing something into her phone. Samantha something, John's brain can't quite focus on the name.

Logan looks intrigued at the insult. “And who are you?”

“Nobody,” she says casually. She slides the phone into her purse and lifts a hand to examine her nail polish. “You could say that I am here looking for business opportunities.”

Logan chuckles. “Business, huh?” He casts a glance at John. “Are you here for a ride? First one's free.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “See, Pierce, I knew you were scum, but date drugs and coercion __and__ rape all in one night? You've outdone yourself.”

“Hey,” Logan says, getting up from the bed and showing his hands in mock surrender. “This is all completely consensual, just some adults having fun.”

While Logan is distracted, John reaches into the pocket of his pants with his free hand and gets out his pocket knife. He starts to pry open the lock on the handcuffs with clumsy hands. They fall open and John reaches for his clothes on the side of the bed.

“You want to know who I am?” The woman asks, stepping closer until she's all up in Pierce's space. “I am the person who will use an 80,000 volt taser on your testicles the next time you try to touch him.”

John starts to put his pants back on. Everything seems to be swaying around him: he must have been drinking more than he realized. Everything feels oddly distant, like he's looking through a thick wall of glass.

“You're making a huge mistake,” Logan says.

“People keep telling me that, I don't know why,” she says. She doesn't sound particularly threatened.

Then Logan turns around to John. “I don't think I've told you to take those off,” he says, nodding at the handcuffs on the bed.

Then he grips John's wrist, hard. John can feel his bones shifting under the skin. “We should talk about what happens when you break my rules,” Logan says, narrowing his eyes.

John manages to twist out of his grip. The woman behind Pierce says: “You know, I was kinda hoping you'd do something like that.”

The next thing John hears is the sharp crackling of electricity.

–

 

SHAW

Private security isn't her dream job, exactly, and the couple she is currently working for – a pair of stuck-up socialites with a taste for opera and expensive French restaurants – are more than vaguely annoying. Sameen realizes that they're not as stuck up as she thought when the doors open to reveal a penthouse that basically hosts an orgy: people making out on couches, two women dancing on a table in their underwear, couples in different stages of making out spread all over the place.

They pass a bed with the curtains half-open. A man sits on the edge of the mattress, half undressed, swaying a little. Sameen feels the dread sinking into her stomach before she has made the connection, but then she's already kneeling in front of him, checking him for injuries.

“John,” she says, holding his chafed wrist. He blinks at her doggedly, confused. “Hey, what happened to you, are you okay?”

John doesn't answer, he just looks at her with big, surprised eyes. “Shaw,” he says, smiling. “Hello.”

“Okay, that's it, we're getting out of here,” Sameen says, grabbing him by the arm.

“I think not,” a calm voice says somewhere beside her. “He's leaving with me.”

She looks up without taking her hands off John. “And you are?”

The man is dressed well, his eyes behind his glasses are clear and blue. Next to him, a guy with curly hair is looking awkward as hell, probably a driver or a bodyguard. “My name is Harold Finch --”

He doesn't get further because she has already crossed the distance between them and pinned him to the wall, one hand around his throat. He gasps, eyes wide with surprise. “I know who you are,” she says with barely concealed rage.

The man who came in with him touches her shoulder. “Hey, look, no reason to get violent, we're just here to help.”

She twists his arm around and shoves him off without even looking. He curses and stumbles away. Around them, a crowd has formed, watching the spectacle.

“For all I know, you're the reason John is here, like __this__ ,” she spits. “Give me one reason not to rip your throat out with my teeth.”

“I am here to help John, just as you are,” he manages, surprisingly collected for someone being pushed against a wall with a hand around their throat.

“Harold?” John says behind her. There is something so hopeful and vulnerable in his voice that it makes Sameen want to punch Finch until her knuckles are raw, but she lets him go instead. He's drawing quick breaths, his hand coming up to his throat, loosening his collar.

“Hey!” A woman in a short black dress and dangerously high stiletto heels walks up to her. “Don't you ever do that again,” the woman says, her eyes fierce and angry.

Sameen looks her up and down. “What are you gonna do, stab me with your mascara brush?”

“Watch it,” the woman says, baring her teeth.

“Root,” Finch coughs, sounding satisfyingly sore. “It's fine.”

The woman - __Root -__ actually takes a step back at that, but she still glares at Sameen. Sameen grins back. She's itching for a fight, and at this point, she doesn't even care who throws the first punch.

“What the hell is going on?” A guy with tousled blonde hair comes stumbling in. He looks like he had a rough night. “Who the hell are you?” He blanches when he sees Root, who waves jauntily at him. “ _ _You.__ I called the police, by the way, you fucking __attacked__ me.” He looks around wildly. “Are they here with you? Because I will sue every single one of you --”

“You should consider shutting your mouth, Pierce, before you walk into my taser again.” Sameen, Finch and the weird bodyguard guy look at her. “Accidentally,” Root adds quickly.

Sameen chuckles. Okay, yeah, so she __is__ into women, message received.

Finch stares at Root. “When I told you not to let anything happen to John, I wasn't telling you to physically assault somebody,” he says. It's an obvious reprimand, but his voice sounds weirdly gentle.

“Oooh, you said that?” John says dreamily.

Root rolls her eyes. “God, it's like somebody got a Labrador retriever puppy drunk on vodka,” she mutters. “Okay, kids, this was fun. I'm outta here. If the police comes looking for me, tell them every single cop in their department owes me a favor.”

Finch opens his mouth to say something, but she has already disappeared into the crowd.

“Bye,” John says, with awkward comedic timing.

This reminds Sameen that she wanted to punch somebody in the mouth. She zones in on the blonde guy and narrows her eyes at him. “So I assume that this is your party?” She has been drifting closer to John again on instinct, keeping him in reach. John leans against her thigh, but he looks at Finch.

The guy crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Damn right it is. Logan Pierce, though I don't know what kind of rock you've been living under to make the introduction necessary. I don't remember inviting you, whoever you and your weird friends are.” He gestures to John. “Or, by the way, allowing you to put your hands on my property.”

Finch is smart enough to move out of the way when she lurches for Pierce. She gets two good punches in before somebody pulls her off of him – the guy Finch came in with. “Look, I think your friend needs your help more,” he says.

Sameen looks over to John. Finch is crouching in front of him, wrapping him up in a suit jacket. His hands are very careful. She has the urge to snap at him, get John and leave immediately, but John sighs and sinks into the touch, his eyes huge and glad.

They get the rest of John's clothes and make a quick escape: none of them is particularly eager to explain to a couple of policemen what the hell went down there. She supports John when they walk out of the elevator and down onto the busy street, but hesitates when she sees the limousine outside.

“Will you allow me to take him back to my place?” Finch asks. She is still not over wanting to punch him: even if he didn't tie John to that bed, John didn't have any fucking bruises on his throat from being choked before that guy came into his life.

“You can join us, make sure I'm not hurting him,” Finch says.

Sameen considers that. What she wants is to hail a cab and take John to her messy apartment and physically hurt anyone who dares to come close to him. John isn't in a position to make decisions, but even in his haze he looked at Finch like he was the fucking sun. Sameen sighs. “I swear to god, if you do anything to hurt him,” she says. She lets the sentence hang in the air.

Finch huffs. “If you want to punch me in the face, go right ahead,” he mutters. He sounds tired. “Even if you gave me the same treatment that Pierce got, that would still mean I am getting off lightly.”

Sameen climbs into the limo. In the driver's seat, the guy with the curly hair rubs his wrist.“Sorry about that,” Sameen says. “I don't like people touching me.”

“You throw quite a punch,” the guy says. “I like that in a woman.”

John is half lying on the leather seat, and Sameen sits next to him and pulls him close, letting him rest his head against her shoulder.

Finch looks at them through the open door before closing it and sitting down in the passenger seat. He keeps throwing worried glances at John through the entire drive.

–

The elevator doors to the penthouse open up to a furious, short redhead who whacks Finch on the arm with her purse. “What did you __do__ ,” she asks, taking in John's disheveled state with one look.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Fusco says, which seems absurdly optimistic of him.

Finch looks like a bird with ruffled feathers. “Grace, I appreciate your concern, but I really don't need your help at the moment,” he says.

Her eyes widen comically. “Who says I'm here for you?” She asks, turning to John. “Hey, there. You remember what happened?”

John frowns in concentration, but doesn't get any actual words out.

“Some rich asshole got him drunk and did god knows what to him,” Sameen mutters darkly.

They are all still standing in the hallway, John supported by Lionel and Sameen, Harold standing awkwardly to the side as if he expects to get attacked again. Grace stands up on her tiptoes.

“I'm going to touch your head, don't be alarmed,” she mutters, putting a hand on his cheek and turning his face a little so she can look at his pupils. “He didn't just have alcohol,” she says, sighing.

“Pretty sure Pierce will have a nasty accident sometime soon,” Sameen says. “Who was that lady who used a taser on him, by the way? She seemed dangerous and vaguely psychotic, I liked her.”

Grace shoots Finch a look. Finch sighs. “Root called me and let me know where John is.”

Grace chuckles. “And she tasered someone on your behalf? Jesus Christ, Harold, that woman will go to prison for you one day if you're not careful.” She blinks a few times, like she is rewinding the conversation in her head. Then she turns to Sameen. “Wait, are we talking about __Logan__ Pierce?”

Finch makes a little, choked noise behind her. Sameen nods. “He had some kind of orgy going down in his apartment, spouted bullshit about John being his property.”

Grace makes a scandalized face and then pets John's cheek. “It will be fine, don't worry.”

John makes a pleased noise and tries to nose at her hand. She turns around to Finch, and they have some kind of staring contest, or possibly a telepathical conversation. “Go and make some coffee, I think we can all use some,” Grace says.

“Are you actually going to order me around in my own apartment?” Harold asks.

“Coffee, Harold,” Grace says, taking off her jacket and throwing it over a couch. Apparently, that means __yes.__

Miraculously, Finch actually turns around and walks down the corridor.

“You, Lionel. How about you show John to one of the guest bathrooms, make sure that he has all that he needs?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Lionel says.

Sameen reluctantly lets go and watches them walk down the hallway, John leaning heavily against Lionel.

Grace catches Sameen's look. “I know what you're thinking.”

Sameen laughs. “With all due respect, I don't think you do.”

Grace smiles. “Let me tell you a few things about Harold,” she says. “He's a loner type, but not because there aren't people in his life who love him, much the opposite: he's alone because he never lets anyone in. Root has been in love with him for years, I have, well. I failed to break down that particular wall as well.” She smiles, but it's sad, like a wound that still hurts. “I don't know much about John, but I know that he got close to Harold in a way rarely anyone ever does.”

“So what, his reaction to someone really caring about him is to break up with them? Because that's the story as far as I understood it,” Sameen says.

Grace presses her lips together. “He's not a bad person,” she says, her voice suddenly all soft and careful. “He's just a mess sometimes.”

“I choked him a little, at the party,” Sameen volunteers.

Grace raises an eyebrow. “I have considered doing that countless times,” she admits. “Did he seem to like it?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Good,” Grace says. “You two are even, then? Or do you want to choke him some more while I stop the time?”

Sameen can't help but chuckle at that. “Are you sure you two are friends?”

Grace shrugs. “We're fighting, officially, but he wrote me a text that had me worried.” She produces her phone and shows it to Sameen.

2:13 ****Harold:**** john is in trouble

2:15 ****Grace:**** what is going on??

2:16 ****Harold:**** he might be hurt I don't know what to do

2:16 ****Harold:**** what if he's hurt

2:18 ****Grace:**** harold, tell me what's happening

2:21 ****Grace:**** HAROLD FINCH

Sameen stares at the screen. She liked it better when she could hate Finch and everything he stood for.

–

 

HAROLD

When Harold comes back, Shaw and Grace are talking. Grace is sliding her phone back into her purse. If anything, Shaw looks even more pissed at him than before.

“I will take care of him,” Harold says, handing both of them a cup of coffee. Shaw huffs and makes a face, but she still takes the cup from him. “Yeah, you are really good at doing that, I can tell.”

Harold flinches at that, even though it is a fair assessment. If he hadn't cut ties with John the way he did, maybe John wouldn't have felt the need to jump headfirst into a new contract. Shaw takes her cup to the living room, looking out at the dark city outside. Grace sits down on the couch, watching.

“I don't have any family left,” Shaw says. “I don't give a fuck what you do in your spare time or what you're into, okay? John said that it was all consensual, but he'd do a ton of stupid things to protect someone he cares about.”

Harold feels the blood drain from his face. “Miss Shaw, I can assure you that I never --”

“You're not talking now, I am.” There are bruises on her knuckles where she punched Pierce. “John won't say a bad word about you, but he was a wreck when he came to me, so you've done __something__. I don't care what it was about or what _business arrangement_ you guys had, but this wasn't business. Business doesn't fucking wreck you like that.”

Harold numbly feels for one of the bar stools near the kitchen counter and sits down. He realized that John had been affected, but he never thought that it would have such an impact on his life. He expected him to get better after Harold cut ties with him, not worse. Which means – it means –

“He's in love with me,” Harold says slowly.

Shaw stares at him like he's the stupidest person she's ever seen. Harold is pretty sure that he hears Grace sigh in exasperation.

“Don't tell me that you only just realized that, or I'll have to choke you some more,” Shaw says, her expression clouding over.

Harold wishes that she would, at this point: at least then he'd have to think about the necessity of air and not all the ways in which he has managed to hurt John.

“Hey, uhm. Boss.” Fusco is standing in the doorway, a hand scratching at his neck. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. “So, uh. Reese is in the bathroom, puking his guts out. If there isn't anything more I can do tonight, then... I would kinda like to go home. I mean. I'm the driver, I'm not really sure all of this is in my job description.”

Shaw moves to the hallway. Her fingers twitch like she's restraining herself from kicking down the bathroom door.

“Of course, Mr. Fusco, you're free to go. Thank you for your help,” Harold says.

Fusco nods. “He, uh. He keeps asking for you. He's pretty out of it.”

At that, Shaw makes a beeline for Harold, fixing him with a cold stare. Grace raises her eyebrows and puts her cup to her lips. She looks like she's watching a crime thriller on TV.

“He trusts you, for whatever stupid-ass reason,” Shaw says, low and dangerous. “If you fuck this up, I will hurt you. I don't care how much money you have or what kind of people you know. You make John miserable and I will __ruin__ you, am I being absolutely clear about this?”

Grace clears her throat. She seems a little too cheerful about the situation for Harold's taste.

“Perfectly clear,” Harold says.

“You could stay in one of the million guest rooms, that's what I intend to do,” Grace says.

Harold gives her a look.

“We'll be gone before breakfast, and it's not like you'd even notice two more people, given how huge this place is,” Grace says. She wears the facial expression that he has titled: __don't be a dick, Harold.__

“Would that be an acceptable compromise, Miss Shaw?”

Shaw gives him an only mildly furious look. “You can be glad that I like your friend here,” she mutters darkly.

“Everyone likes me better than him,” Grace says, taking a sip from her coffee.

Harold makes a face at her.

“They do,” Grace says, but she's smiling.

Harold takes some bottled water and a blanket into the bathroom. He knocks, but doesn't get a reply except for the sounds of someone retching, so he lets himself in. John is kneeling in front of the toilet, resting his head against the cool porcelain. He looks __miserable:__ his hair is mussed up, his skin pale and sweaty. He is taking deep, careful breaths as if he's fighting down a new wave of nausea.

Harold carefully goes down to his knees next to him. “John,” he says. His voice sounds terribly shaky.

John turns his head to the side and looks at him with bloodshot eyes. “Harold,” he says. “That's nice,” he adds, a little loopy. He rests his cheek on the porcelain and closes his eyes. “I was hoping to see you again.”

Harold hasn't consciously decided to touch John, but before he knows it he is reaching out to touch John's back, moving his palm in soothing circles. John sighs and leans into the touch.

“You're at my penthouse, do you remember what happened before?” Harold asks.

John frowns in concentration. “Pierce,” he says.

Harold grabs a washcloth from under the sink and turns on the faucet, soaking it with cold water. Then he holds it up to John's forehead. John sighs in relief. “Did he give you something else? Drugs, maybe?”

John seems to think about that, but then his eyes slide shut again. “Don't remember,” he says, “Sorry.”

Harold runs the washcloth over John's face when he notices that John is shaking on the cool tile. He folds the blanket over John's shoulders. “There you go,” he mutters.

“I'm sorry,” John says, “I'm so, so sorry.” Then he groans and bends over the toilet to throw up again, his hands clenched on the toilet seat. He makes a miserable noise after, coughing and retching.

“Shh,” Harold says and moves closer, grabbing a fresh towel and handing it to John when he leans back, breathing heavily. John wipes his mouth with it.

Harold keeps extra toothbrushes in the guest rooms, so he takes one from the cupboard, removes its plastic wrapping and puts toothpaste on it, handing it to John. John blinks at it blearily before putting it into his mouth. Harold hands him a plastic cup with lukewarm water and sits down next to him while John brushes his teeth and spits foam into the toilet.

After, he wipes his mouth with the towel again, smiling a little dazedly.

“That's better, isn't it,” Harold says, sliding a hand into John's hair. John sinks against Harold like he can't keep himself upright, his forehead resting against Harold's shoulder. “It's fine, John, everything will be fine,” Harold says, pulling the blanket tighter around him, holding him close.

John shivers underneath his hands. “You're a friendly hallucination,” John mumbles against the fabric of Harold's shirt.

Harold strokes John's back. “I am right here with you, I promise,” he says.

John's shoulders tense. He is holding on to the fabric of Harold's shirt with a tight grip. It takes Harold a moment to realize that the little noises John makes are sobs. “Sorry,” he chokes out, over and over. “I'm so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Harold says, but that only makes John sob even harder, tears streaming down his face.

Harold lets him weep, keeps holding on to him while John falls apart in his arms. Guilt and shame rise up in Harold like ice water, and Harold strokes John's soft hair and tries not to let the waves drown him.

–

 

JOHN

John wakes up with a splitting headache. He moves his head and is hit by a sudden wave of nausea. When he feels a little better, he carefully cracks an eye open and surveys his surroundings. He is lying in a large bed, drooling onto the pillow. When he sits up, there is an unpleasant, acidic taste in his mouth.

John reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand and drinks. There is a little blister with an Advil in it that he fumbles out and gladly swallows before getting to his feet. He feels dizzy and vaguely sick, even more so at the thought of what Pierce will have to say about him getting drunk and blacking out at his party. John remembers fragments of the last night. He remembers Pierce handcuffing him to a bed and being angry with him, and then some memories that don't make sense: he thinks that he's seen Harold's secretary, and Shaw and a lovely, red-haired woman, but he was probably seeing things, some kind of drunk hallucinations. He dreamed of Harold, too: Harold who was there and wasn't disappointed in him, who didn't send him away.

John is pretty sure that Leon can start looking for a new job for John. Maybe Pierce has already sent in a scathing email to the agency, complaining about John‘s lack of professionalism.

John finds his shirt and jacket carefully folded over a chair, along with his shoes. He has slept in his pants, somebody must have led him to the bedroom and helped him undress the night before. The whole night is a blur: guests and drinks and the deep thrumming of the bass, a drink and Pierce's grinning face, and then John remembers feeling gut-wrechingly sick and sinking into merciful darkness.

He opens the door. The sun is shining through the large windows, making him wince.

"Mr. Pier- Logan,“ John says. His voice sounds way too loud in his own head.

There are sounds coming from the kitchen, the sizzling of butter, the sounds of a knife on a chopping board. John follows the noise and the smell of a cooking breakfast, turning a corner. In front of the stove, Harold stands in a shirt with his sleeves rolled up and flips a perfectly browned omelet in a pan. John is definitely going to throw up again.

"John,“ Harold says, and presses a button on a sleek, metallic machine. There is a loud whirring and the noise of steaming hot water, and John flinches.

"Sorry about the noise,“ Harold says, and hands him a cup with freshly brewed coffee, smelling so good that John‘s mouth waters with it. "Many people crave greasy food after excessive alcohol consumption. I made bacon and eggs, and also had a few other breakfast options sent up.“ He gestures to the table that is set for two, covered with a basket full of bread rolls, a carafe of orange juice, a bowl of fruit. "Did you drink the water?“ Harold asks. He gets a bottle out of the fridge and hands it to John. "It‘s important to keep hydrated, alcohol drains fluid from the body.“

John takes the bottle, completely stunned. "Harold,“ he says. "I don‘t remember how I got here.“

Harold keeps preparing the food. He doesn't look up, but John can see his expression darken. "I got a call from a... friend that you were in distress.”

John huffs at that. “I was an idiot, I shouldn‘t have been drinking,” he says. “No need for you to come over and get me.”

He sits down on one of the bar stools at the counter. His head feels heavy and hurts, and all he wants to do is to curl up on the floor and __die__ at the thought of Harold finding him in that state, seeing him hit rock bottom. Now that his head clears a little, he also remembers other things: storming out of the penthouse, Root kneeling between Harold's legs at the office, the fact that he is __mad__ at Harold, no matter how glad he was to see the Harold in his dreams, that friendly presence who told him that everything would be fine.

“Nonsense,“ Harold says, stirring the contents of a pan with a spoon, dropping freshly ground herbs into another one. “Of course you would follow his orders to a T, it‘s not your fault at all that he‘s an irresponsible _child_ who doesn‘t understand boundaries and consent. He __drugged__ you, we should have given the police an anonymous tip, I am sure that penthouse is filled with illegal substances, enough to warrant a search.”

John feels a wave of affection for Harold: the displeased set of his mouth, the way he looks perfectly put together doing something as mundane as making breakfast. He is placing food in front of John, who feels like he will never eat anything again in his life. He tries his best not to let the feeling of fondness sway him: Harold and him are through, Harold has seen to that.

Harold looks up at him. "How do you feel? Is the nausea better?“

John shifts through the haze of memories in his aching head and uncovers another one: him on his knees, bent over cool porcelain, Harold‘s soothing palm on his back while John throws up the contents of his stomach, miserably retching over the toilet. John buries his face in his hands. Being unconscious is starting to feel more appealing by the second.

"I am so sorry,“ John whispers, mortified. "I should go, I‘ll just get a cab, I, --“ He takes his hands away and blinks at Harold. “Wait, what friend of yours called you? And why? Why do you care?”

Harold transfers a portion of scrambled eggs to a plate with great concentration. "Miss Groves was at Mr. Pierce's party, and she called me because she was concerned that things were done to you that you were in no state to consent to. Or not,” Harold says darkly. “It was, I believe, her way of an apology.”

John tries not to think about the day at the office. “So you came over because, what? You felt obligated?”

Harold pauses. He takes off his glasses and wipes them with a clean handkerchief. "I was worried about you,“ he finally says. "And with good reason.“

John feels Harold‘s disappointment viscerally, like ice water filling up his guts. Harold puts his glasses back on. "I didn‘t mean to imply that any of this has been your fault, John. Much the opposite, in fact. I made an irresponsible decision when I let you go.”

" _ _Harold__ ,“ John says, wrecked, because it‘s too much, and he is in no state to deal with it. “You can't just say that.”

Harold puts down the spatula he's been holding. He looks John in the eyes, this time. “I was wrong about sending you away and I'd like to apologize.”

John stares at him incredulously. “Is that so?” He asks. He should probably value the fact that Harold made a point to apologize to him, but all he feels is resentment. How can Harold expect him to just forget everything that has happened, all the things he said. “Looked to me like you found a replacement for me quickly enough.”

If that stings, Harold doesn't show it. “It's complicated,” he says, as if that is reason enough. “Miss Groves and I have a rather peculiar relationship --”

“Yeah, you looked decidedly unhappy about what she was doing to you under that desk,” John says. It's a low blow, but he doesn't care: he's in pain and Harold is still __whole__ , and everything slides off of him like water. John desperately wants to make a dent in that perfect facade, drag something ugly and honest out of him.

“John, I understand that you're angry at seemingly being replaced so soon. We had a business contract, one that, if I may remind you, we __terminated__ before Miss Groves and I … were intimate.” He winces, as if he's unhappy with his own phrasing. “And quite frankly, how I spend my time is none of your concern,” Harold adds, reasonable and so fucking calm that John wants to break something.

“Oh yes, sure, business, which is why you came to pick me up and brought me here and make me breakfast now, it's all strictly professional.”

Harold gives him a frustrated look. “I'm not sure what I've done to be treated with such condescension --”

“You're not _sure what you've done_?” John asks, incredulous, because how Harold can not see what's going on is beyond him.

“Well, you were the one who got himself into a very dangerous situation, John. Working for someone like Pierce, exposing yourself to someone so completely, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. A man like him could break you in ways you can't even imagine,” Harold says.

“I worked for you,” John says, raising his chin in defiance. “I exposed myself, I let you do whatever you wanted to me. How is this any different?”

There's a muscle working in Harold's jaw like he's grinding his teeth. “John, you could have gotten hurt, you could have gotten killed in that place.”

“I've had bad things happen to me before, I can handle it,” John says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Harold looks at him as if John has lost his __mind.__

“Did you hear what Pierce said to his guests that night? John, you could have gotten raped, handcuffed to a bed --”

“Yeah, I know, okay? I know. I could have gotten raped, Pierce could have drugged me senseless and strangled me, I know what could have happened, “ John says. He feels like lashing out, so he does, too tired to keep up any pretense. “Why do you care? None of this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It matters,” Harold says, and suddenly his voice is loud and angry in a way John has never heard him, “ _ _it matters__ because you could have gotten hurt, or killed. You are flippant about this as if all of this doesn't even concern you.”

“Well maybe I just don't fucking care, Harold,” John says. His head hurts and the rest of his body does, too, and he just wants to curl up somewhere and sleep. “It's not as if I have a life I need to get back to, or some big company or people who would miss me. If I die in some rich douchebag's apartment, the world still keeps spinning, Harold. The world won't fucking stop.”

“How dare you,” Harold snaps, his face red with anger, “How dare you look me in the eye and tell me __you have nothing to live for.__ You matter, John, you are too important to risk your life over a stupid job for some asshole with a god complex. You wanted to go out there and let yourself be fucked by Logan Pierce to spite me? Fine. You did it, you got to me, seeing you like this made me goddamn miserable.”

“And why is that?” John says. He leans against the counter, his body language making it clear that he's not running from a fight. He is used to being yelled at, and Harold isn't physically threatening: if anything, his outburst is making John want to prod __more__. It's not like he has anything to lose anymore. “Why do you care so much about what happens to me?”

“Because I need you to be fine!” Harold shouts. “I need to know that you're safe and happy and not raped or drugged or hurt by a bunch of irresponsible, vain people, I need.” Harold stops to breathe, a few shallow breaths like he forgot how to get air into his lungs.

“You need what?” John asks. It doesn't come out as accusatory as intended.

“I need you here with me,” Harold says, and his voice is shaking. “I. I _need_ you.”

John stares at him. “You could have anyone in the world, there is a whole list of people in Leon's office who would kill for this job. I don't understand what's so special about __me__. ”

“You're the person who crawls through barbed wire to save a scared dog!” Harold yells, a vein on his temple throbbing. “You're the person who apologizes after being treated terribly, you're the person who has so little sense of self-preservation that they would hand themselves over to someone like me, someone like Pierce --”

“You're not the same,” John says, suddenly, because that isn't something that Harold can say. “You're not like Pierce.”

“That's right,” Harold says, chuckling miserably. “I'm sure Logan Pierce never put his best friend through a traumatic experience because of his sexual cravings, or rejected the loveliest, kindest woman he has ever met because he can't for the life of him figure out how to talk about his feelings. __Logan Pierce__ isn't a selfish control freak who has pushed away every single person who ever meant something to him, just because he was so scared of needing someone.”

“Harold,” John says, but Harold isn't done. “ _Logan Pierce_ never cut all ties to somebody he fell in love with just because he was too scared of facing up to that.”

John blinks. The words sink into the silence between them. Harold's hands are shaking. “Oh god, I yelled at you, I am sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you, John. I just can't lose you, I can't – I have never felt for somebody this way and I can't lose you.” He looks up at him. “And it's not about the sex or the play or submission, I just...”

Now _Harold_ looks like he's going to throw up. “Oh,” John says, honestly surprised. He had it all backwards: all along, the one caught in a barbed wire fence has been __Harold__ , not him.

“I had. I had someone I loved and he wanted to make me happy and submitted to me when he didn't really want to, and it put him through hell. __I__ put him through hell, and I never managed to repair that. Nathan was the first person I ever fell in love with, and I hurt him and I made him miserable, and I can never forgive myself for that. So when I met Grace, I couldn't...”

Harold trails off, then takes a deep breath. He touches his hand to his face, blinks at the wetness on his fingertips. His hands are trembling.

“You don't have to do this,” John says softly.

Harold nods, wiping his cheek. “I am a __danger__ to people, John, I need to set up rules and objective agreements and I can't. I can't love anybody because I will _ruin them,_ ” he manages. “If you never want to see me again, I understand,” Harold says, shoulders slumping.”I have caused enough damage as it is.”

John looks at him. “Is there another option?”

Harold swallows. “If you could forgive me for what I've done to you, John, if you wanted to, by some miracle, stay as my partner, my equal, I would... it would be more than I could ask for.”

“Are you,” John starts, except his voice isn't really working, so he tries again. “Are you saying that you want a relationship with me?”

Harold looks at him. “Yes,” he says, the words rushing out of him like he's breathing, like he's drowning. “John, you have to understand that I didn't send you away because I didn't want you.”

John nods, realizing. “You wanted me too much,” he says, his heart racing with that new found truth.

Harold tries to smile, but gets stuck somewhere in the middle. “The time we spent together comprised some of the most precious moments of my life,” he says. Then, he sobers up a little. “It's your choice, yours alone, I am … whatever you're willing to give me, I will gladly have. And if you decide to walk away, understand that I won't blame you for it. It's fine.”

John looks at Harold. He doesn't need to think, or consider, or make a list of pros and cons. The answer is easy, obvious. The answer is right there on his lips. “Yes,” he says, and then a few times more for good measure, “Yes, yes, yes,” John says. “I want all of it, please. I want to be with you, to be … what we were. All of it. Harold. __Harold.”__

"Oh, John,“ Harold says. His voice sounds very small. For a moment, John thinks that Harold will sink down and weep or walk out on him or do a dozen other improbable things, but then he walks over to the couch to retrieve a cushion and drops it down on the floor next to the chair. "Kneel,“ he says, and there is a hint of steel in his voice that makes John want to hug and kiss him.

John feels himself calm down before he has even walked over all the way, before his knees have touched the fabric. He is so relieved that he could cry.

Harold hands him the mug of coffee and says "Drink,“ his tone allowing no protest.

John closes his palms around the warm porcelain and drinks in small gulps while Harold putters around in the kitchen, bringing over plates to the table. Then, Harold sits down on the chair next to John. He takes the empty cup from John and places it on the table before taking a strip of crispy bacon with his hand and holding it out to John. John eats it out of his hands, licking the grease off Harold‘s fingers. It is delicious, warm and filling, and when Harold takes his hand away to cut the rolled up omelet into smaller pieces and pull apart a piece of toast for him, John lets his head sink against Harold‘s thigh, closing his eyes.

"Very good, John,“ Harold murmurs. He passes down the bottle of water and John drinks greedily.

He lets Harold feed him bits of toast and fruit for a while, occasionally drinking more water.

"Is this alright, John?“ Harold asks, at some point, and John just makes a pleased sound and rubs his face against the fabric of Harold‘s pants.

Harold keeps feeding him until most of the plates are cleared. Then he wipes off his hand on a paper towel and moves his head down to pet John‘s head. It feels good, so good to just be in the moment, his stomach filled with warm, delicious food that Harold made for him, chasing away his earlier nausea. John is kneeling and feeling Harold‘s fingers stroke his head all the way down to the nape of his neck. Even if he doesn‘t understand, even if he never gets to feel this way again, John can‘t bring himself to care, not when he feels safe and peaceful for the first time in weeks.

John doesn‘t know how much time passes. At some point, Harold gets the newspaper and reads the headlines out to him, Harold‘s hand still scratching his neck, running through John‘s hair, the sound of his voice lulling John in.

The next time Harold leaves, John can hear him moving around in the bathroom adjoining the master bedroom. John can hear the sound of water running, then Harold‘s soft footsteps on the floor. "Come on,“ he says, and John staggers to his feet and follows him blindly, letting Harold lead the way.

Harold has drawn a bath for John, scented white foam all over the tub and a stack of warm, fluffy towels next to it. There's a toothbrush waiting in a holder for him and John stares at his own reflection in the mirror while brushing his teeth. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his hair is sticking up from his head at weird angles. He is still in his undershirt from the night before. John spits and rinses his mouth.

Harold stands next to him, holding a razor and a can of shaving cream. John nods, unable to speak. Harold swallows, looking down at his hands, the task he's performing. He still looks a bit shaken up, but his hands are steady when he spreads the foam over John's face, his throat.

John doesn't flinch when Harold puts the blade against his skin. It feels good, the precise slide of the razor, the familiarity of it. Harold takes his time, turning John's head the way he wants it with a firm hand under his chin. John lets his eyes fall shut and concentrates on the sensations: the feeling of Harold's hands on him, the cool air caressing his freshly shaven skin. It doesn't hurt, not even once. Nothing hurts anymore.

Then Harold‘s hands are on him again, undressing him. John opens his eyes for that, watches how Harold folds every piece of clothing carefully and puts it to the side. He hovers over the bruise around John's wrist where John had strained against the handcuffs, but John catches Harold's hand and raises it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles.

Harold helps him to get into the large bathtub, and John relaxes into the warmth. Harold finds the shampoo John likes best and sets the bottle down by the tub. Just when Harold starts to move away, John wraps his hand loosely around Harold‘s wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

Harold looks at him with clear, blue eyes. "What do you need, John?“

John can‘t keep looking at him, so he just slides his hand into Harold‘s, pressing their palms together. It's like all the words have left him, like there is no language left in him.

Harold‘s lips twitch. "Ah yes, I see,“ he says. He disentangles his hand and starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

John sighs with relief when Harold gets undressed all the way and carefully lowers himself down into the opposite end of the tub. Harold‘s hands on his skin give John direction, gently push at his shoulders and then draw him down, and then John is resting with his back against Harold‘s chest, Harold‘s arms around him. John feels his muscles relax into the heat, against the familiar weight of Harold behind him.

Harold reaches down to squeeze a dollop of shampoo into his palm and work the foam into John‘s hair, massaging his scalp. John sighs, blissfully relaxed, and lets Harold rinse out the shampoo with the shower head attached to the tub, carefully checking the temperature against his own wrist, making sure that no foam gets into John‘s eyes.

"Very good, really let yourself fall, that‘s it,“ Harold says against John‘s ear, smoothing a strand of wet hair away from his forehead. Harold strokes John‘s chest and sides underwater, presses small kisses to his neck.

John whimpers when Harold‘s hand brushes his cock, halfway to aroused despite his exhaustion.

Harold hums against John‘s skin and closes his hand around him, giving John something to push up against. John whimpers, thrusting up into Harold‘s palm.

Harold doesn‘t tease: he gives John as much friction as he wants, moves his hand in tune with the movement of John‘s hips. It feels so good, and John is tempted to let the simple pleasure take him under.

Instead, he reaches down to still Harold‘s hand. "Please fuck me,“ John says, his lungs burning with he words.

Harold takes a deep breath. John can feel the proof of Harold‘s arousal pressing up against his back.

"Get up,“ Harold says after a moment, and on a whim, John takes Harold‘s hand and moves it up to his mouth, presses a kiss against his wet palm.

–

John is trembling on the bed while Harold prepares everything. He only starts breathing again when Harold kneels between John‘s legs and fingers him open, bends down to lap at John‘s opening with his tongue. John whimpers desperately, panting. He is lying on his back with his legs spread for Harold, completely exposed, and yet he feels safer than he has in a long time, sheltered in the comfort that Harold will take care of him now, that Harold will make him feel good.

" _ _Please__ ,“ John gasps at the next touch of Harold‘s tongue at John‘s sensitive skin, and Harold withdraws and reaches for the foil packet with the condom. John has asked him before to fuck him bareback, his own test results coming back clean and him knowing that Harold‘s did, too, but maybe Harold considered it a matter of professionalism, another small degree of distance.

"You don‘t, you don‘t have to,“ John gasps, aching with the loss of Harold‘s warmth and touch. "Do it without.“

Something complicated happens on Harold‘s face, but then he lines himself up, the head of his cock pushing against the ring of muscle. He stretches John, fills him up. Harold pushes into him easily, John is so loose and open for him, and John sighs, his eyelids fluttering.

"I‘m so sorry,“ Harold says quietly, thrusting into John, his palms spread against John‘s thighs.

“I know,” John says, breathless. “I am, too.”

"I shouldn‘t have made you go,“ Harold says, and John can hear how shaky his voice is. John tries to keep his eyes open, tries to come up with something to say, but then Harold moves his hips just right and warm, overwhelming pleasure wells up in John, shivering all the way down his spine.

"I thought I was protecting you,“ Harold says, his hand closing around John‘s cock, stroking him. "I thought I was doing what was best for you, but I wasn‘t. I was a coward.“

John whines when Harold speeds up his thrusts and runs his thumb over the head of John‘s cock at the same time. John can feel his orgasm building, but he doesn‘t want it to be over yet, he doesn‘t want to come before Harold does, he just needs --

"Come on, John, my very good boy, come for me,“ Harold says and John‘s hips jerk abruptly when he spills over Harold‘s hand, his whole world narrowing down to that intense, delightful pleasure.

John is distantly aware of Harold finishing, too, saying "John, _John,“_ above him and then stilling with a gasp.

Harold takes care of everything, he always does, cleaning John up and pulling the sheets over him and putting his arms around John. John hides his face against Harold‘s throat. Then Harold tips John‘s head up, their faces so close together that their breaths are mingling between them. Harold leans in to brush his lips against John‘s, a chaste, careful kiss, and John feels like something shatters in him. The sob makes it all the way out of his throat before John can do anything about it, and then he‘s clinging to Harold‘s arms, weeping against him.

"I shouldn‘t have sent you away,“ Harold says, kissing John‘s temple. “How could I do that,” he mutters, pressing his mouth against John's skin.

Harold‘s voice sounds as wrecked as John feels. He looks up at Harold, at his kind, worried eyes.

"You want me here with you?“ John asks. He needs to hear it again, many times, before he will believe it.

"Always,“ Harold says, his lips brushing John‘s forehead. "Always, John.“

 

FIN

 

 


	5. Epilogue.

****EPILOGUE** **

“Let me guess: It followed you home,” Harold says, dropping the keys into a plate on the kitchen island.

There are six pictures on his phone that clearly show a puppy inside of Harold's penthouse: in the bathtub, wrapped into some of his towels, eating something undefinable out of one of his cereal bowls, lounging happily on John's stomach. Apparently, John has brought some of his work home. Harold should have known that it would be irresponsible to let him work at an animal shelter.

John is spread out on the couch in yoga pants and a faded gray shirt. He gives Harold a lazy smile when he comes in. There is a tiny ball of fur curled up on his chest with its eyes closed. “He's too small to stay at the shelter all alone, he needs to be taken care of.” The puppy stretches and yawns on his chest, and promptly falls asleep again. John pets its brown fur. “Somebody left him in a box by the roadside. He likes to sleep like this, I think the sound of my heartbeat is calming him down.”

Harold sighs and sits down at the end of the couch. “What did we say about bringing rescue animals home?”

John makes his pleading face. “It's just for a few days, Harold, then he can be given up for adoption. I was there when he was brought in. He was coughing, probably caught bronchitis while he was out there, so the doc wants him to get medicine every few hours.”

“Which is why you obviously had to take him home. For medical reasons,” Harold says, raising an eyebrow.

John blushes. “I thought it would be nice if he could go home with someone he had already bonded with. And he's much better already.”

“You bond with every single dog at that shelter, John,” Harold says. “Even the ones who try to claw your face off.”

“Peanut just needed some love,” John mutters defensively, petting the puppy's head.

“Yes, I am sure the ninety pound Doberman Pinscher who tried to murder you was just misunderstood,” Harold says primly.

“He just wanted to play, he wasn't trying to murder me,” John says, but he's grinning.

Harold gives him a stern look. “You can't bring home every sad puppy because it looked at you with its sad puppy eyes. When you took that job I was assuming that you were going to work at a shelter, not turn this apartment into one.”

“Somebody needed to look after Bear,” John says, wincing a little. “I mean. That's what I would name him. If I would. Name him.”

“Of course you named it already,” Harold mutters. So much for not getting attached.

The tired puppy on John's chest nudges his hand with its nose when John stops petting him. John smiles and scratches behind its ears, and the little dog rolls onto its back, leaning into the touch. “I'll bring him back once he's all better. Find a nice family for him.”

Harold sighs. He likes his hardwood floors without puppy claws making scratches in it, not to mention that he __really__ enjoys his apartment without a small dog peeing onto the carpet or chewing on the furniture.

Harold looks at the dog: it's dark brown with a black muzzle. It also makes __noises__ when John touches it, wagging its tail wildly. Harold sighs __even louder.__ It's not like this decision wasn't already made when he chose to stop at that pet store on the way back from work. Harold reaches for the plastic bag and produces a small collar. He holds it out to John. “I wasn't sure about the size, it was hard to judge the dimensions on the images you sent.”

John stares at him, nonplussed. “You bought it a collar,” he says. The puppy licks and bites playfully at John's fingers. Harold makes a point of not mentioning the bruises on John's hands and arms, apparently caused by sharp puppy teeth and claws.

“You never brought one of the rescue dogs home until now, I figured this one might be special. Also, as much as I hate to admit it, there __is__ plenty of room in the penthouse, and you can take it to work with you when you go to the shelter.”

“Wait. Are you saying that we should keep him?” John asks. He is radiating happiness.

Harold huffs. “ _ _You__ keep him. I certainly won't walk this dog when it's freezing outside, or take him to his vet appointments. You keep him, you take care of him. I just silently resign myself to sharing my living space with a little creature that knows no social rules whatsoever.”

John easily scoops up Bear with his hands and sets him down on the floor. The puppy runs over to Harold, falling over its own feet on the way.

“Dogs are very social,” John says. “And I'll train him, make sure he behaves.”

When Harold holds out a palm, Bear licks and noses at it with enthusiasm. Harold smiles despite himself. “He __is__ very hard to resist, I have to say.”

John looks up at him. “So we're doing this? Bear gets to stay with us?”

“Bear gets to stay with us,” Harold says, and John's smile is so wide that Harold is a little afraid he might hurt himself.

That evening, they leave Bear on the dog pillow Harold has bought, in what John insists is the nicest spot in the kitchen. He gets a bowl of water and one of John's shirts to cuddle up with. Harold takes off his tie and places it next to John's shirt. John looks like he's trying not to laugh.

When John closes the door of the master bedroom behind them, Harold starts unbuttoning his shirt, placing his cuff links on the dresser. John tugs at his sleeve, and Harold turns around. John slides to his knees gracefully and swiftly undoes Harold's belt, already nosing at his crotch.

Harold draws in a sharp, surprised breath. “John,” he says, and then John gets his pants open and takes out his cock and swallows him in one smooth move, and Harold whimpers weakly.

John looks up at him the whole time with huge, trusting eyes, effortlessly relaxing his throat. Harold pets his head, overwhelmed with grateful tenderness for this man who loves which such ease and abandon. He runs his fingers through John's hair, scratches lightly at his scalp, and John hums contently, lips stretched obscenely around Harold's cock. John's hands come up to Harold's hips, urging him to thrust. When Harold does, John makes an appreciative noise, his eyes going heavy-lidded when Harold fucks his mouth.

It's the way John is tenting his own pants that finally undoes Harold: the way John presses the palm of his hand to his crotch, his eyelids fluttering shut. Harold grunts and tightens his hand in John's hair, and John swallows around his cock, licks him clean after.

Harold urges him to stand up so he can undress John with slightly unsteady hands, lie down with him on the bed and run his hands all over him. Harold teases his nipples, the sensitive skin over his ribs, the insides of his thighs before closing a hand around his erection and jerking him off. John shudders and sighs in his arms, burying his face against Harold's throat.

“I've never bought a collar that was meant for a dog,” Harold says thoughtfully, and John laughs, a deep, warm sound against Harold's skin. Then Harold runs his thumb in tight circles around the head of John's cock, teasing the spot just under the head that makes John claw at the sheets. It doesn't take long until John tenses and moans, spilling over Harold's hand.

Later, they lie tangled up with each other while John strokes aimless circles over Harold's stomach and sides. “Do you think he's okay over there on his own?” John asks.

“You are not bringing a dog to this bed,” Harold says, as sternly as he can manage with John draped over him like an overly affectionate octopus.

John laughs. Harold kisses the corner of his mouth, he can't resist. “I think that Bear can count himself lucky that you're taking care of him,” Harold says, more seriously. “His life will certainly be much better with you in it.”

John looks up at him. “Do you really think that?”

“I might know a little bit about that,” Harold says quietly, squeezing John's hand.


End file.
